


Much Abides

by KivrinEngle



Series: Not to Yield [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Foster Care, Found Families, Gen, Human Disaster John Laurens, M/M, Past Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler, Past Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens, Reincarnation, the slowest of burns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:15:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 25
Words: 94,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25660471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KivrinEngle/pseuds/KivrinEngle
Summary: No-one asks to be a Second-Timer. Life is hard enough once - to go through it again, bearing the memories and regrets of a lifetime, would be bad enough even if it wasn't a social stigma.Jack doesn't know why he's suddenly waking up screaming and bearing scars he never earned. He doesn't know why he apparently died young and terrified, full of regrets. He just knows he's not interested in being sent away to programs for Second-Timers, even if he might meet other kids like himself, and he doesn't want to keep remembering the life he'd failed to live properly the first time.He does wish he could remember who Alexander was, though, and why he'd died thinking of him.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Series: Not to Yield [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1901632
Comments: 1298
Kudos: 477





	1. one

Jack wakes up screaming. 

That’s the first bad sign.

He’s never been prone to nightmares, or to any sorts of memorable dreams. He can remember a handful of dreams that have stuck with him in his fifteen years on earth, and none of them have ever caused him to startle awake, sitting bolt upright, with tears streaming down his face. 

He buries his face in his hands, startled to find that they’re shaking, he’s shaking, head to toe. He feels like he’s fallen into an icy river and been pulled out again. He can’t remember any of the dream. There are no details to cling to, no reason he can give for why he’s gasping for breath. Jack knows for a fact that he’s never been this scared in his life. 

He forces himself out of bed before the shaking subsides, wanting the security of hard flooring beneath his feet. The floor is cold with the chill of a brisk fall morning, and Jack shakes off a little more of the residual terror as he paces back and forth, trying to wake up all the way. Part of him feels like he’s still asleep.

The problem, when you get right down to it, is that he already knows what’s happening. 

But it can’t be, it just can’t. He’s too old - fifteen and a half, almost - and there’s never been any sign before that he’s one of the lunatics, as his parents call them. Jack Laurence is normal, sane, ordinary. He can’t be one of them.

Nobody wants to be reincarnated, Jack knows. They had all spent the critical years on edge, everyone afraid that one day they’d wake up with the dreams and the knowledge of a life they’d never lived, and their lives would never be the same. He’d watched a close friend fall into Second-Timer Syndrome when they were ten, and he’d never seen her again. You never do, once they wake up. 

“I’m not,” Jack says out loud, just to reassure himself. His voice is still his own, if raspy from sleep and fear. His feet feel like his own, and his hands, and everything. He’s fine. It was only a bad dream.

He makes himself go through his normal morning routine, even if he’s up an hour early. It’s a little extra time to look over his homework, maybe even to eat a proper breakfast, for once. His parents usually aren’t even awake yet by the time he’s climbing onto the bus, which is a relief. He doesn’t want to face them with the expression that meets him in the mirror; he looks like he’s seen a ghost, and he’s not interested in trying to explain himself. 

It’s when he strips off his pajama shirt to climb into the shower that the second bad sign makes itself visible.

There’s a gunshot wound in his chest, just above his heart. 

He can’t keep his feet under him when he sees it. His knees buckle, and Jack hits the wall and slides down until he’s sitting, knees pulled up to his chest, covering the scar with both hands like he can will it away. 

It doesn’t hurt - not yet, anyway. He knows how this goes, academically. The realization comes upon Second-Timers suddenly, and that’s when they’re marked with any death-wound they may have. Lucky reincarnates don’t have any. If you’re lucky, you died in bed of old age the first time, surrounded by your loving family. He’s seen fairly gory-looking scars. A few years back, when the media had discovered that pod of reincarnated French aristocrats from the Terror, everyone had gaped at the scars they had had - dark, unforgiving lines across their throats, all the way around the backs of their necks. The guillotine hadn’t left them unmarked, even in their second lives. 

Academics speculate about it, of course - what causes reincarnation to begin with, what dictates the speed at which memories return, whether it’s even real at all. Jack’s parents are skeptics. They’re of the mind that all supposed Second-Timers are just insane, or else grifters looking to profit off the gullible who can be taken in by wild claims that a person used to be Cleopatra or Houdini or Elvis. Not like anyone can really prove they are who they claim to be - the best science can do is match up the timeframes of lives and deaths, map whether appropriate scars appear on their bodies over time, and try to help Second-Timers not to go insane. 

Jack forces himself to breathe deeply, though his body is trying to tell him that he’s dying, he’s bleeding out. There’s no pain, and there’s no actual wound. It’s just a scar, a memory of the death of someone in the past who Jack doesn’t know. He makes himself remove his hands from the scar slowly, facing it with all the courage he can muster.

It’s awful. It’s a larger bullet hole than some Jack has seen on reincarnates, and he shudders at the thought of what it had been like for the unfortunate dead. Had they bled out from the wound, or had the bullet pierced a lung, leaving them to die gasping? There’s no sign of the wound having been tended or stitched, so at least he won’t have to relive a long, lingering death of putrefaction.

Putrefaction? Jack reads plenty, but that’s not a common word in his vocabulary. It’s someone else’s word, making its way into his head, beginning the process of changing him into someone he once was, someone he has no memory of being. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to see if he can force out the ideas, the experiences, that are beginning to leak into him. He doesn’t want any of it. He doesn’t want to be reincarnated. 

He stays huddled in a ball on the floor for too long, and eventually has to force himself to get up, shower, dress himself - all of it a rote process that he can do without engaging his brain, thankfully. He doesn’t trust himself to think.

“OK,” Jack says half an hour later, looking at his expression again. He still looks like himself, untameable hair and ridiculous freckles and all. “OK. This isn’t the end of the world.” 

There’s no visible sign of his scar, and no-one will ever see it, unless he removes his shirt. He’ll just have to never, ever do that around anyone else ever again. No-one is going to be looking for signs of reincarnation from him - he’s too old. A bit of quick and dirty math lets him estimate that the someone he once had been had died young - less than thirty, probably, given Jack’s age. That’s not a good sign for him. The reincarnates whose past selves had died old start remembering early, usually before they hit ten; they have plenty of time to get used to the process, and there’s more support for them in society. 

Everyone knows that people whose first lives ended quickly or brutally tend to do really badly the second time around as well. 

Jack isn’t going to be one of them.

He’s smart enough to figure out how to manage this, how to hide any symptoms so they won’t take him away, how to keep his own personality and character unchanged even as the person he had been tries to re-emerge. 

He nods at his reflection, comforted again by the fact that all he can see is Jack, and goes downstairs. What’s important is keeping to his routine, not letting anything significant change. He eats the same cereal he’s always preferred, sitting in his usual chair, and doesn’t let his fingers stray to his chest, where the invisible wound hides beneath his shirt. 

Jack is in control. He boards his bus, goes to school, and doesn’t let himself worry about it. It’s going to be fine. 

He does check out a book from the school library - “Second-Timers: Fact or Fiction?” and hides it in the depths of his bookbag. Good thing his parents never check on anything he’s doing or reading. He goes to all his classes, rides the bus home, does his homework. He eats dinner with his parents, all of them mostly ignoring one another on their phones, and doesn’t flinch when his mother reads aloud a scathing article about another supposed reincarnate who had been faking a previous life as King Tut in pursuit of fame and fortune.

“They all ought to be locked up,” his father grunts. Jack doesn’t offer an opinion. It’s not wanted, anyway.

He doesn’t look at his chest when he changes for bed that night, and he breathes a sigh of relief upon finally making it to bed. He’s gone through one whole day as a damned Second-Timer, and hasn’t gone mad or attacked anyone or let on that anything is wrong. He can do this. 

Jack is asleep for less than two hours before it starts again. He wakes up screaming, clutching his chest this time, where there’s a burning sensation centered right on the wound that had killed him. 

Killed him. Because he remembers that, now.

Not all of it. The pain of a bullet hitting him in the chest, knocking him from a height. Had he been on a tank? No - he thinks it was a horse. Knocking him from his horse. The memory of screams and gunshots in his ears as the world had faded, lost in a whirl of breathless pain and - regret.

That’s what comes through, so strong and present that he almost vomits. Regret, as he lay dying - and Jack doesn’t know what it was for, what he had done wrong, why he had died with a heart overflowing with shame and sorrow. No - not what he had done, but what he hadn’t. There was something he hadn’t done. 

He rubs at his eyes furiously as his heart rate starts to come down, wiping away tears that don’t belong to him. 

It isn’t fair - even if that’s a childish lament, he feels it to his bones. He can’t lie to himself anymore, and he doesn’t know how long he’ll be able to keep it to himself. If they find out he’s a Second-Timer, he’ll be snatched away and sent somewhere - nobody seems to know where they go, except that the government always assures the rest of society that there are programs for the tiny, unlucky few who cannot shake free of lives they already lived and deaths they already died. Maybe there aren’t programs. Maybe they just get rid of them. 

It isn’t fair, and he doesn’t know what to do. The ache in his chest is more emotional than physical, still, but what if it gets worse? Some Second-Timers wind up in excruciating pain - although some manage to brush it all off, according to reports, and live normal lives. Wherever they are. They can’t interact with normal people properly, of course; there have been too many frauds, too many people trying to cash in on inventions they’d made in past lives or settle generational grudges that had long since died. They don’t fit into society anymore, whether their soul is thousands of years old or had just died an hour before being reborn. There’s no place in modern, civilized society for Second-Timers. 

“I’m sorry,” his heart screams, for no reason that he can discern, and his eyes are wet with tears again. “I'm sorry. I failed.”

Jack wraps his arms around his knees, drawing them to his chest to cover the terrifying mark of his shame, and doesn’t go back to sleep.


	2. two

Jack reads most of his library book on reincarnates that night, since he’s not going to sleep again. Maybe not ever. He’ll put it off for as long as he can, because the idea of finding himself back in that hellish living memory of his own death makes him slightly frantic. 

The book answers practically none of his questions. It’s written from a semi-scientific perspective, trying to work out whether Second-Timers are genuinely reincarnated from some past life. It goes over some of the debates on terminology - “souls” versus “echoes”, “past life” versus “historical recollections” - and examines a few case studies. 

In the end, even a skeptical book like this one has to conclude that at least some of the people in the past century who have claimed to be reincarnated from a past life have been telling the truth. Everyone knows the story of Ned Teeks, who not only claimed to have been the famous pirate Blackbeard, but proved it by leading historians directly to the buried treasure that centuries of treasure-seekers had been unable to locate. That was pretty hard to dispute; it wasn’t long after Teeks got famous that restrictions had been put in place to keep Second-Timers from talking about their past lives. 

Jack mainlines coffee before school, already feeling exhaustion creeping up on him, and gets on the bus without looking back. He’s got a mental to-do list - exchange the book for others on the topic that might be more useful to him personally, stay awake through Algebra, avoid getting changed for gym where he can be seen, and not open his mouth and say anything stupid enough to give him away. Pretty simple.

He actually manages all of it, and comes home with three more books hidden in his bag, a pounding headache, and a stack of homework. It’s not at all like him, but he drops the homework on his desk and doesn’t bother with it. It’s hard to feel like it matters as much when his chest is burning, a hollow ache that he can feel any time he stops to let himself breathe for a moment. 

“You look tired,” his mother says over dinner, when she can be bothered to look up from her news sites. “Are you getting enough sleep, Jack?”

He laughs hollowly, and then has to turn it into a joke. “I’m in high school. I think they’re out to make sure none of us ever sleep decently. You should see the amount of homework I have.”

“Don’t stay up so late,” his father advises absently. “You kids these days with your apps and your texting.” He doesn’t look away from his phone. “When I was your age, we didn’t have any of that nonsense, and we slept plenty.”

Jack doesn’t point out that he doesn’t use social media or ever text anyone, aside from what’s necessary for hateful group projects for school. For some reason, he’s struggled to make friends in high school, and those he’d had before have drifted away or apart over time. It’s not that he doesn’t try. It’s just - every connection he thinks he’s made feels tenuous, as liable to float away as a spiderweb in a strong breeze. He’s unmoored.

Jack balls his hands into fists under the tables. That’s not his word, either. Just his luck if the soul (or echo or whatever you want to call it) that’s intent on ruining his life is an absolute nerd who uses archaic vocabulary. 

He excuses himself to do the homework that seems to matter even less, and reads another half a book - “Messages and Mendacities: Profiles in Second-Timer Syndrome” - that’s really, really depressing. Pretty much everyone in the book went crazy or got so obsessed with the past that they stopped being able to function. He accidentally falls asleep part way through a particularly awful account of someone who had apparently been a serial killer in their first life, and who had found themselves fighting the urge to murder everyone they loved. It’s probably an exaggeration, anyway. 

He manages three hours before screaming himself awake, clutching his head and his chest and knowing, knowing, that he’s bleeding out on the hot, dry ground, that he’s gone too far this time.

It’s a pattern that he can’t adapt to, even as it takes over his life. He can’t sleep more than a few hours at a time, and avoids sleep where possible. Sleep means dreams, and dreams mean details - still hazy, but becoming clearer all the time - of how he’d died. There had been flies, loud and close to his face. There had been such a smell in the air - horses and blood and something burning. It lingers in his nose some mornings, and he can’t stomach breakfast. 

Still, he’s holding it all together, somehow. He does his homework more often than not, and manages to stay awake in class, mostly by terrifying himself about what would happen if he fell asleep and woke up screaming. He’s been dealing with this Second-Timer garbage for almost two weeks before it all comes apart. 

It’s a field trip that’s his undoing. He’s got an Environmental Science class that’s legitimately awesome, and they’ve all been looking forward to the trip to a local wetlands preserve for weeks. They’ll get the tour, be able to explore the area, and do a bit of planning for their end-of-term projects. Jack even manages almost four hours of sleep the night before, though he wakes with his head buzzing frantically. 

The wetlands are, as promised, wet. It’s a hot day for September, and the smell of heat off the dry ground and water in the distance has him on edge the moment he steps off the bus. They line them up and introduce their guide, and Jack’s head keeps buzzing like a nest of bees has made a home there. He barely pays enough attention to follow the group as they begin the tour, and he feels like his attention is flickering in and out - now laser-focused on something specific, now gone to an extent that he’s losing time. 

“And over there,” the guide says, pointing to a tall field of grass that’s rustling in the breeze-

Ambush. 

It’s an ambush. The British beat them here, and are hidden in the grass. They’re armed and ready, and John doesn’t hesitate. The only option is to charge, to take them by surprise before they can wipe out his men from their hiding place. They can’t make it the last mile to the redoubt he’d hoped to man, but General Gist is not far to his rear, and will come up with reinforcements. He has to hold, until they come. 

The British rise as one, grass suddenly bristling with bayonets shining in the sunlight, and John raises his arm and shouts orders to his men to attack, to charge, to take them-

Someone has him by the shoulders, shaking him with a level of intensity, and John could stab them now, where’s his sword? How dare they keep him from his men?

“Jack!” 

Jack blinks, mouth falling open, and finds himself staring at Mr. Sells, who looks vaguely terrified. “Jack?” he asks, loosening his grip a little. 

“They’re going to shoot,” Jack says. His mouth is dry with terror, because they’re going to shoot and he already has the scar and he’s going to die here at the Combahee River, and he’ll never-

“Who?” Sells’ voice is sharp, and around them a few of his soldiers - no, classmates - exclaim in concern. Active shooter drills and skirmish techniques war in his brain for a moment, and Jack clutches his head, which is still buzzing. “Jack? Who?”

He gasps a breath, and shoves away the war, the roar of muskets that had ended him. The grass is still, except for a gentle undulation in the breeze. Jack shakes his head. 

“Sorry,” he whispers. “I don’t know what happened.”

Everyone is staring at him. He wants to vanish, wants to take off running, but the grass is full of soldiers and - 

No, it isn’t. He pushes back again at that idea, the certainty of death waiting just ahead of him, and steps back, projecting calm and control. “Sorry,” he says again. 

Mr. Sells looks worried, and the guide is trying to recapture the class’ attention. “Why don’t you go sit down in the shade for a few minutes,” his teacher suggests. “I’m going to call the school and get the nurse to come and pick you up.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Jack protests. “I’m fine now! I was just - daydreaming, I guess?” 

“I don’t think so,” Mr. Sells says quietly. “That looked a whole lot more like PTSD, Jack. I’ve seen it before.”

“No, I’m fine! Look, no problems here!” The class has moved on without them, the other chaperones keeping up with the group, but Jack still sees a few anxious glances being cast his way.

Mr. Sells shakes his head. “Have a seat. The nurse should be here soon, and we’ll let her make the determination.” He guides Jack over to the base of a tall tree and makes him sit, and walks away a few paces to call the school; Jack can’t make out what he’s saying. The buzzing in his head is quieting down now, and he’s trying to think through what he had remembered. 

There had been an ambush, and British soldiers, which narrowed down the window of time he was looking at considerably. He’d been shot from his horse, and hit the ground; flies and blood and heat as he’d gasped for breath. It hadn’t hurt as much as it seems it should have done. He’d died fast, he thinks dully, resting his forehead on his drawn-up knees. There had been fear and regret, and a vanishing sadness as he had known he would never see Alexander again.

The name comes to him in a rush of warmth, and Jack shuts his eyes against the power of the sentiment that accompanies the name. There’s nothing else - no memory of a face or voice, just a last desperate wish that he could have seen Alexander one last time. 

He must have lost time again, huddled there, because the nurse is there with him, urging him to lift his head, taking his vitals with practiced hands, then getting him to his feet and moving towards her car. 

“I’m fine now,” Jack protests. “I’d rather join the class for the rest of the tour.”

“I don’t think that would be wise,” the nurse says briskly. “We need to get to the bottom of this, young man.” There’s no room for argument in her tone, and Jack has to go along, still somewhat lost in a past he can’t reach yet. She leaves him to his thoughts as she drives. 

They say most reincarnates have all their memories back by about age 21, although the last few years of memories are usually too faded to be of much value. Nobody remembers their infancy and very early childhood, and those are the last memories to be returned. It probably won’t be long before he remembers more of what preceded the ambush that had killed him. 

For some reason, the more pressing question to his mind seems to be about Alexander, and why he had wanted him so badly when he lay dying. 

They’re back at school far too quickly, and the nurse efficiently bundles him into her office, ushering him onto one of the awful soulless cots they keep there for kids who get sick. She takes his vitals again, and then asks him to explain what had happened. 

“I don’t know,” Jack says, thinking again about the gleaming bayonets, and gives an involuntary shudder. The smells rise up in his nostrils again, and he winces. He doesn’t want to think about this, doesn’t want to remember-

His hand goes to his chest, clutching hard at the spot that aches coldly, remembering the bullet that had lodged there so long ago. 

The nurse hasn’t missed any of it, and has started writing furiously on a yellow legal tablet, nodding knowingly at him. “That’s the death scar, is it? Any others?” 

“I - what?” Jack asks intelligently. She shakes her head, somewhere between pity and distaste. 

“You’re not the first Second-Timer I’ve seen, young man. It’s a hazard of the job, working with children.” She chuckles, but it’s not really funny. 

“I’m not!” Jack objects, suddenly fully focused on the present. “I’m fine, I’m normal! I just haven’t been sleeping well, and I think I was dreaming?” It’s a pitiful excuse, and she isn’t really listening. She leaves him on the cot and goes to her desk, picking up the phone without hesitation. 

“Yes, hi, this is Katherine Collins at Northside High? Yes, good morning. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” She pauses for a moment, listening. “I know, I can’t believe it either! Anyway, I’m calling with a new one. Jack Laurence, fifteen, just presented with PTSD and presumed death scar. You know I don’t like to push them to share too much in this setting.” She listens again, then hums agreement. “Mmm-hmm. I know. Such a pity when they’re older. Right, you’ll send a team? Thank you. Have a good one!” 

She hangs up and writes some more on her tablet, and Jack’s fingers curl around the edge of the cot, gripping tight. What team will they send? Is he about to vanish, like most Second-Timers? He looks to the windows and the door, trying to figure out a means of escape, but apparently the designers of the school had inconveniently forgotten to provide an easy means of egress for students looking to vanish. 

He drops his head into his hands, rubbing at his temples, where a massive headache is brewing. Nurse Collins comes back in a few minutes and tuts at him.

“Headache, young man? That’s fairly common at this stage. Here.” She turns away, and comes back with ibuprofen tablets and a bottle of water. “This should help.”

“What’s going to happen to me?” Jack asks. The water bottle shakes in his hand. 

“I’ve called the State Department for Reincarnate Affairs. They’re sending out a team to assess your condition and determine an appropriate placement.” Her tone is brisk and businesslike, but there’s a tinge of empathy as well. “Trust me, they’re the experts on your condition. They’ll be able to help.”

“Placement?” he asks. The water slops over the rim, splashing onto his fingers.

“They’ll explain it all when they get here,” Nurse Collins assures him. She shakes her head, looking him over. “It is a shame this happened so late. You must have died fairly young last time, poor thing.”

She goes back to her desk, unshaken, and Jack tries to get his hands to stop shaking, his breathing to even out. He closes his eyes, and the warm longing steals back over him again, almost comforting. He wishes Alexander were there. 

He wishes he knew who Alexander was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, kids. I've got no excuses for myself except to say that you've been so welcoming and wonderful that you've brought this on yourselves. As a warning, let me say I've read precisely 0 (zero) reincarnation fics in this fandom, so I'm not familiar with commonly accepted vocabulary and worldbuilding. I don't find that I care that much, either, as I'm probably putting a different spin on it anyway. If any of my worldbuilding and whatnot is unclear, please let me know and I'll try to clarify! I'm really excited about this concept, so let's see where it goes! Thank you all so much for being utterly lovely, and do please continue to be such excellent human beings. The world needs those dreadfully. Love always - Kivrin.


	3. three

The team from the State Department for Reincarnate Affairs arrives within the hour. Probably a perk of living so close to the state capitol, Jack figures. It’s a small team - two people with nothing but government lanyards to mark them as anything but ordinary. Their badges say Sam and Margy, they’re both probably in their mid-thirties, and Jack doesn’t process much more than that. Nurse Collins has been carefully avoiding him, except for checking that his headache has subsided; Jack lies that it has. 

“Let’s get to it,” Margy says briskly. She’s got a nice smile - warm and welcoming - but he’s not ready to trust her on that basis. “How long have you been experiencing symptoms?”

“I’m not!” he lies, even though he already knows it’s going to be futile. It just seems like a bad idea to let himself be vanished without putting up any sort of fight. “I’m fine.”

“Hmmm,” says Sam, looking at his paperwork. “We spoke to the teacher who witnessed your flashback. He didn’t seem to think everything was fine.” Sam eyes him doubtfully, and then reads off the paper, “Jack seemed to lose track of his surroundings for three or four minutes, and declared that, quote, ‘They’re going to shoot,’ end quote.” He looks Jack over again. “Is any of this inaccurate?”

“No,” Jack admits. His fault, having a - what are they calling it, a flashback? That makes sense - in front of witnesses. “But it was a one-time thing. I’m fine.”

“One time for now, hon,” Margy tells him, and she looks sympathetic. “Once they start, they don’t stop for a while. They’re likely to get worse before they get better. Now, how about you tell us everything? We’re here to help you.”

Isn’t that what they always say in the movies, before everything goes wrong?

“We’re authorized to gather information by whatever means necessary,” Sam puts in. That doesn’t sound particularly appealing. Jack sighs.

“It’s only been about two weeks,” he admits slowly. “I don’t remember much of anything yet. Just dying, I guess, and then today I remembered a bit more of what led up to it. It’s only been a few dreams. I’m not violent or anything, I swear.”

“No-one is suggesting that you are,” Sam points out. “What details can you give us from what you remembers?”

“Umm, I was shot?” Jack offers. He taps the spot on his chest. “Fell off a horse, I think, and died there.”

“Anyone with you when you died?” Margy asks.

“No. No, I was alone.” That much he does remember, even if it makes his throat a little thick to admit it. “There were other people there - soldiers - but after I fell, no-one.”

“Soldiers. Give us a description,” Sam presses.

“British. I’m sure they were British - they were ambushing us from the grass. Muskets and bayonets,” Jack says, closing his eyes to picture it more clearly. “I don’t know how many there were.”

“Revolutionary or 1812, I’d guess,” Margy says. “Most people reincarnate in approximately the same geographical area where they died, so you probably were somewhere here in the southern US. Were you a soldier?”

“I don’t know,” Jack says. He furrows his brow. “Maybe? I think I was giving an order?”

“OK,” Margy says. She offers another sympathetic smile. “I’ll start putting this into the database. Sam, can you do the physical check?”

“Sure.” Sam gestures for Jack to come with him, and they move to one of the more private cubicles a little deeper in the nurse’s office, where they’re shielded from other eyes. “I need to examine your death wound, Jack,” Sam explains. “We keep a record of any and all scarring that emerges. Sometimes it helps us track down details about your first life.”

Jack clutches his shirt protectively. It seems wrong, to let someone else see something so private. Sam smiles ruefully. 

“You know how I died? Coughed myself to death. I was almost 70.” He taps his own chest. “I don’t have any interesting scars at all. Sometimes I wish I did.”

“You’re a Second-Timer?” Somehow that idea hadn’t occurred to him. Sam nods. 

“Margy is, too. A lot of us in the Department are. We tend to be drawn to helping one another.” 

Jack stares at him. “So they’re not just making us disappear? I thought-”

Sam laughs a little. “No, there’s not really any ‘they’. We try to look after our own, even if it doesn’t always seem like it. We really are trying to help you.”

Jack hesitates another minute, and then pulls off his shirt. He doesn’t meet Sam’s eyes while he examines the scar. 

“Pretty gruesome, kid,” Sam says after a moment. “Can I get a picture for your record?” Jack nods, and is glad when Sam snaps a picture with his phone that doesn’t show Jack’s face. “You need to keep your case manager informed if new ones show up. We’ve tracked down more identities through positive correlation with historical injuries than almost any other method.” 

“Case manager?” Jack feels like his head is starting to spin again. 

“You’ll be assigned one once you’re placed,” Sam says offhandedly. He gestures for Jack to put his shirt back on, and leads him out into the main office again. “Margy and I are an intake unit, so you’ll probably be working with one of our colleagues.”

“What does placed mean?” Jack pushes. Margy looks up from where she’s typing rapidly on a laptop. 

“Well, hon, here’s the deal,” she says kindly. “Your parents are not equipped to help you manage what’s happening to you. That’s nothing against them - nobody’s parents are, unless they’re Second-Timers themselves.”

“Mine definitely aren’t,” Jack says. He’s beginning to feel numb, and isn’t letting himself think through the implications of what they’re saying, yet. 

“I know.” She smiles sadly. “We’ve already interviewed them on our way here.”

“We don’t like to waste time,” Sam puts in. “Too much damage can be done in too short an amount of time.”

“Damage?” Jack frowns. 

“When people don’t know what they’re looking at, they make bad assumptions,” Sam says carefully. “Second-Timers have wound up in mental hospitals, or facing exorcisms, or worse. It’s not a thing to play around with. You need professional help.”

“Like, doctors?” Jack asks. He does not want to go to a hospital. 

“No,” Margy reassures him. “We have theraputic homes set up, with people who are trained to help you manage everything that’s happening. We’ll do our best to find you a home that’s a good fit.”

“Different families specialize in different things,” Sam adds. “There’s a fantastic home I try to place all my drowning victims in, for example.”

“You mean, like, foster parents,” Jack says flatly. “You’re putting me in foster care.”

“Technically, yes,” Margy admits. “Highly specialized care, though. We can help you set goals and meet them. Some kids just want to be able to function and reintegrate in society, and we help them to do that. Some aren’t interested in pretending to be anything that they aren’t, and we try a different approach.”

“I don’t want to be a foster kid,” Jack objects, but he can’t seem to find enough energy to even protest properly. The flashback earlier seems to have drained him of all of his vitality; he just wants to sleep. “And my parents - they won’t let me just be taken away!”

Margy and Sam exchange a sad glance, and then look back at him. “They already surrendered custody to the state, hon,” Margy tells him gently. “They’re concerned. They want what’s best for you.”

It should be more of a surprise, really, but Jack’s lived with his parents for long enough. He knows how they feel about Second-Timers. He slumps back down on the cot, feeling a new wave of exhaustion take over. “So, that’s it? I just don’t get to go home again?”

“We’ll take you by there on our way out,” Sam says. “You can gather a suitcase of your things. Remember, this isn’t meant to be forever. Most kids can go back home eventually.”

He laughs hollowly. They’ve all seen foster kids come and go in the system, drifting in and out of school as they switch homes like unwanted refuse. 

Margy finishes her report, and glares at the screen. “I’m not seeing anything local. We’ve got a few homes with spots for soldiers who were killed in action, but they’re pretty much all 20th century focused.”

Sam shakes his head. “No, we’ll need to cast a wider net. Someone who knows his period better.”

“I’ll open it up geographically,” she says. “Could take a while to find prospects, of course.” She smiles apologetically at Jack. “I’m sorry. Sometimes it takes a while to find a good fit that has open slots.”

He nods. It doesn’t seem to matter whether he really agrees or not; this is going to happen, no matter what he says.

They pack up and take him away from school with no fuss. He doesn’t have anyone he cares enough to say goodbye to, or anything to gather from his locker. He watches the school retreat in the distance, vaguely surprised by how little he cares. He’s been feeling it recede in importance over the last few weeks, anyway, and the flashback today has made algebra and French class a whole lot less significant. 

They take him home. It already doesn’t feel like his. 

“The important thing is for you to get better, Jack,” his mother insists, wiping away tears. “Just get well again, honey, and then you can come home.” She’s packed a suitcase for him, and he takes it, even though he knows she’ll have packed all the wrong things. At least she’s trying. His dad watches from a distance, like he’s about to attack them. They don’t try to hug him. In a few short hours, he’s become something untouchable.

“Got a potential hit,” Margy says, when Sam escorts him back to the car. “Jordan and Marissa Wallerton.”

“Aren’t they pretty distant?”

“Up in Virginia,” she says with a shrug. “But they’re practically a perfect fit, and we’re already sending a kid up there tomorrow, anyway. I already spoke to them about the placement, and they’re in favor. They’ll take them both at once.”

“Overnighting it at the office again, then?” Sam says, giving a tired chuckle. “That works.”

They drive back to Charleston in near silence. Jack has nothing to say, and is concentrating on keeping himself awake. He doesn’t want to wake up screaming in the car with these strangers, even if they’ve been decent to him. He can’t think about his parents, or his flashback today. He winds up reciting poetry to himself in his head, any snippets he can remember. It’s always been a way he can entertain himself. 

They grab McDonalds for dinner, and Jack can’t touch it.

They’re met outside the boring, governmental looking building that houses the SDRA, as his new caretakers refer to it, by another team of two with a teen in tow. The second team looks a lot more stressed than his, though.

“You’re taking over now, right?” The taller of the two agents says. He looks worn out. “We’ve had him for three days now, looking for a placement, and he’s slippery.”

The boy in question raises his chin stubbornly at that. He’s thin and scruffy-looking, with dark hair that falls to his shoulders and eyes that are so piercing and intense that Jack is very glad they’re not trained on him. “Not my fault you’re bad at your jobs,” he points out. He seems to be trying his best to make them angry, given the obnoxious tone of voice. “Any half-decent government babysitters could have done a better job keeping me under lock and key.”

“For the last time, kid, you’re not being locked up,” the other agent says tiredly. “This is for your own safety and protection.”

He snorts inelegantly. “Protection, my ass. I can look after myself.” He glances over at Jack, and seems to take him in and dismiss him in a heartbeat. “Are we enjoying all the comforts of this four-star hotel again tonight, then?”

Sam chuckles dryly. “Just our luck. If it makes you feel better, we have to spend a lot more nights here than you do.’

The offices aren’t bad, but they certainly aren’t set up for people to comfortably live in long-term. There’s a shower stall in one of the bathrooms that they can use, and a stack of cots in a corner of a half-empty office, but it’s hardly home. 

“We really don’t like having to keep kids here overnight,” Margy apologizes. “But it’s only for one night. We’ll have you to the Wallertons in plenty of time tomorrow, and that’ll be a lot more comfortable.”

The other boy deigns to introduce himself at some point in the evening, though Jack feels like such a washed-out shadow of himself that he can hardly bring himself to care. 

“I’m Alex,” he says sharply, putting out a hand that’s more demanding than friendly. “I have no intention of sticking around for long, but it’s nice to meet you.”

“Jack Laurence,” he responds. For one tiny moment, his heart gives a thrill, before he shuts it down sharply. Alex is a very common name. It doesn't mean anything. The odds of him running into his Alexander, of all people in the entire world, are astronomical. It's not him. “You’re going to run?”

“I’m always running,” Alex says. “You will too, once you figure these places out.”

“Have you been in foster care long?”

“Since I was twelve,” Alex says, crashing insouciantly onto a cot and staring at the ceiling. “I’ve been in and out. You?”

“First time,” Jack admits. Alex whistles.

“Awfully old to be getting started, aren’t you?”

“I guess,” he mutters. Alex doesn’t look at him. 

“It’s gonna suck,” he says matter-of-factly. “It always does.”

Jack doesn’t know enough to be able to contradict him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man. I took one day off and I swear it felt like three weeks. Time passes oddly when you're single-parenting your way through the apocalypse, kids. Writing is keeping me sane. 
> 
> Thank you guys, so much. You're incredibly kind and wonderful and I adore you all.


	4. four

Margy and Sam make them get up far too early the next morning, and Jack can barely muster the grace to be grateful that he made it through the night without screaming nightmares. He did dream, though. They were quieter dreams, full of a feverish misery and body aches that follow him into the waking world. He doesn’t have much patience for Alex’s grumpiness that morning, and sits in the car with his head leaning against the window while their intake team argue and threaten and eventually compel Alex into the vehicle.

He doesn’t blame them for turning on the child-lock on the doors, so that Alex can’t try to fling himself out into traffic along the way.

“You look like shit,” Alex tells him after about ten minutes, when he’s stopped glaring at the backs of Sam and Margy’s heads, as it’s not accomplishing anything.

“Thanks,” Jack mutters. He feels about as good as he looks, but he doesn’t appreciate Alex’s blunt honesty. His head hurts, he’s achy and feverish and keeps shaking with attacks of chills. It’s pretty miserable; it’s pretty much in keeping with how his life is going right now.

“We should stop and check if he’s dying,” Alex calls hopefully. Margy and Sam ignore him. They’ve figured him out pretty fast. Alex shrugs and gives up, and mutters to Jack in an undertone, “Keep it under wraps when we get there. Nobody likes needy new kids.”

That makes sense, so Jack nods, feeling the vibration of the car’s travel through the window where he’s still leaning his head. “Any other tips from the seasoned professional?”

Alex furrows his brow and stares at Jack for a moment, then shakes his head. “You’re not ready for most of it. You’re way too young.”

Jack manages to sit up at that, annoyed. “There’s no way you’re more than a year older than me!”

Alex waves away the objection. “Not what I mean. You’ve barely started remembering, right? So you don’t have a clue who you were, which means you don’t have a clue who you are. Take a while to figure it out.”

“What does that actually mean?” Jack presses. “I know who I am. I’ve been me for fifteen years now. I’m not about to let some old memories remake me into someone else.”

Alex laughs, though it’s not very amused. “That’s what we all think, at first. Look, you don’t have to full-on embrace your past life or anything. I ignore mine as much as possible. I’m not letting it get in my way this time around. But the person you were is the foundation of who you are now, and the more you remember, the more - well, _yourself_ , you become.” He grimaces. “I’m explaining it all wrong. It’s like trying to explain Shakespeare to an otter. You haven’t got the experience to understand it yet.”

“So, who were you?” Jack asks.

Alex shoots him a really dirty look, like he’s just said something unspeakable. “We don’t ask each other that. Not ever.”

“Sorry!” Jack slumps back against the window, any fraction of energy he’d had abandoning him in a rush. “You’re right. I don’t have a clue about any of this.”

“You’ll get one soon enough,” Alex allows. He stops glaring. “The first few months are the worst. After that, you’ll get used to it, and only really big memory retrievals will throw you. The foster care shit is worse than the Second-Timer shit.”

“Not everyone purposefully antagonizes every family they’re placed with, you know,” Margy calls over her shoulder from behind the wheel. “Here’s an idea. Try giving the Wallertons a chance, hmmm? They’re good people.”

“Uh-huh, sure they are,” Alex says doubtfully. “Not just in it for money, or to take advantage of kids down on their luck, or to try to find the reincarnation of, like, Gandhi or someone.”

“No, they aren’t,” Sam says. “They’re the genuine article.”

“That’s what you people always say,” Alex mutters. “Seven times now, so you’ll forgive me if I don’t give a shit what you-”

“Alejandro,” Sam cuts in. “I’m sorry you’ve been through so many homes. I’m sorry previous teams haven’t been able to find you a good fit. But you can’t take it out on the Wallertons. I have a really good feeling about this match.”

Alex slumps against his window, an unconscious mirror to Jack, and glares out at the cars zipping past in the opposite direction.

The Wallertons are apparently located not too far outside of the Washington DC area, so the Beltway traffic slows them down for far too long. Jack can’t manage to stay awake, and wakes gasping with the sound of musket shots ringing in his ears. Alex doesn’t even look at him, which is oddly helpful. He gets it, Jack can tell.

They reach the Wallertons’ place by late afternoon. They seem to live on a huge piece of land, judging by the length of their enormous private drive. The road is lined with tall, graceful trees, and Jack can see green fields and slopes rolling away on both sides with no indication of other traffic. The house, when they finally get to it, is absolutely massive - a huge, stately home that is, frankly, intimidating.

“Ok,” Alex admits, “Maybe they’re not in it for money.”

Jack shivers violently, wracked by a sudden chill, and Alex shoots him a warning look. “Make the best impression you can,” he offers in an undertone. “They tend to make their minds up about us pretty fast.”

“I am so stiff,” Margy groans as she climbs out of the car, opening Jack’s door and then almost having to catch him as he stumbles out. “You ok, hon?”

“Fine,” Jack says, ignoring the pain in all his muscles and reaching back to grab his suitcase. He looks up at the house doubtfully.

On the other side of the car, Sam is negotiating with Alex through the window. “You promise you aren’t going to try to bolt?”

“Where would I go?” Alex says, spreading both arms wide in exasperation. “We drove for, like, half a day just to get up their driveway! I’ll need to get a taxi to get out of here.” That seems like enough for Sam, and he lets Alex out. Alex doesn’t even look at the house. He’s determined not to be impressed, Jack thinks - though it’s not like he knows the other boy at all. He can’t go supposing he can guess his motives.

The door opens, and a boy flies out, followed at a more respectable pace by two adults. The boy is probably about of an age with Jack and Alex, and has the most fantastic puff of a ponytail Jack has ever seen. He’s grinning like he’s just spotted his long-lost best friends, and Jack braces himself against the car in case he’s actually going to fling himself at them, as his enthusiasm might suggest.

“You’re finally here!” Jack thinks he hears a French accent, but it’s far from clear. “We’ve been waiting forever! I’m Laf. Welcome home!” He grabs first Jack’s, then Alex’s hands, shaking them with far too much energy. “We have your rooms ready, and-”

“”Didn’t we talk about not overwhelming them in the first two minutes, sweetheart?” The woman - Mrs. Wallerton, Jack supposes - asks Laf, with too fond a smile to suppose she’s really scolding him. “Let them breathe!” She’s not terribly tall, and she’s cheerfully plump with a kind, open face under sleek black hair.

Laf jumps back, putting up his hands. “I didn’t do anything to them!” He looks at both of them again, intently this time, as if he’s looking for something in their faces. “Do you know me?” he asks hopefully.

“Laf,” Mr. Wallerton says, with the same sort of fondness, putting his hands on Laf’s shoulders and pulling him back a step or two. “We’ve talked about this. Give it time, son.” Mr. Wallerton towers above Laf - and Alex and Jack, for that matter. His head is close-shaven, and his eyes are intense and kind and intimidating, all at once. He’s the sort of person who automatically leads, Jack thinks, and everyone else finds themselves following gratefully.

“Thank you for taking both of them in on such short notice,” Margy says, her voice genuinely appreciative. “I think you’re aware that both of their cases may be a bit on the difficult side. We’re delighted to have them with a family with so much experience!”

“Every case is difficult for the child who has to live through it,” Mrs. Wallerton says evenly. She moves forward to greet them. “Welcome,” she tells Alex warmly, offering her hand, and not looking offended when he doesn’t take it; he glares at her warily, and doesn’t move. “What would you prefer to be called?”

“Alex,” he says. “Just Alex.”

“Alex it is,” Mr. Wallerton agrees. He steps up beside his wife and looks Alex over, though there’s no sense of judgement in the look. “I’m afraid your reputation has preceded you, young man.”

“Don’t believe half of it,” Alex shoots back. “I never did most of what they say I did, and the things I did do were absolutely deserved.”

Mr. Wallerton chuckles warmly. “I believe it, son.”

“I’m not your son.” Alex looks almost dangerous for a minute, even though he’s head and shoulders shorter than Wallerton.

Something shifts in Wallerton’s expression - a flash of shock crosses his face, and then he’s staring at Alex with something very much like hope. “Of course,” he says evenly, but Jack sees him grab Mrs. Wallerton’s hand and squeeze it very tight. She returns the pressure and smiles at him for a moment, then turns her attention to Jack.

“And you too, of course! Welcome!” She holds out a hand, and he shakes it politely. Manners were not optional where he came from. “What should we call you?”

“Jack Laurence,” he says, and shivers again. “I mean, you can call me Jack.”

“Are you quite well, Jack?” Mr Wallerton asks, dragging his attention away from Alex with an obvious effort, and then frowning as he takes Jack’s condition in.

“I’m fine,” Jack says quickly, remembering Alex’s warning. He makes himself stand up straight and meet the man’s eyes, and Wallerton nods and shakes his hand in return.

“Well, I think that’s everything,” Margy says, looking unhappy at the thought of climbing back into the car. “Both of you have all your things?”

Alex snorts indignantly, hefting the backpack that seems to contain all his material possessions. Jack just nods.

“I never quite get over how this works,” Mrs. Wallerton says with a warm little laugh. “You show up and drop them off, and we have two new members of the family. We don’t have to sign for them or anything!”

Alex makes a face at that, and Sam shoots him a warning look. “Please let us know if there’s anything we can do to help all of you with the adjustment period,” he tells the Wallertons. Laf is practically bouncing on the balls of his feet behind them, and Jack thinks he may spontaneously combust if they keep him waiting much longer. Their intake team says a quick goodbye and are gone in a moment, and Jack feels the world shift under him, yet again. He looks at the Wallertons, and then at Alex, hoping he can follow the more experienced boy’s lead.

“Now can I show them their rooms?” Laf cries, bounding forward again. “I’m tired of waiting!”

Both of the Wallertons laugh, and Jack is relieved, because nothing in their dynamic has shifted with the departure of the team. “In a minute, sweetheart,” Mrs Wallerton says. “Why don’t we all come inside, though?” She leads the way, and Jack follows her up the wide steps and in through the front door, into a massive, open hallway with a grand staircase sweeping up to the second floor. He feels like he should take off his shoes, but nobody else does, so he follows suit as she leads them all into a comfortable sitting room.

Alex is looking increasingly uncomfortable as he looks around, and Jack gets it. His house - well, his parents’ house - could easily fit in this place three times, and it’s hard not to get overwhelmed. Laf flings himself onto a sofa that Jack’s mother wouldn’t ever have let a child touch, and grins at both of them.

“You can sit! Nothing here bites!” Laf tells them both. “It’s going to be so nice to have others here, now! It’s too quiet all the time these days.”

Mr. Wallerton sits in a comfortable looking armchair and smiles at all of them. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. This is your home, for as long as you choose to stay here, and we want you to feel at home.”

Jack perches awkwardly on the edge of another chair. Alex doesn’t sit; he folds his arms and stares daggers at Wallerton. “And if we don’t choose to stay here?”

“You’re not a prisoner, young man,” he says gently. “As far as I’m concerned, you may come and go as you please, and this family will always welcome you back. But I have to ask-” he hesitates a moment, then goes on. “Will you give us a chance? A week, maybe, before you decide whether to stay or leave?”

“And then I can do as I please?” Alex presses. Wallerton nods.

“Of course, I’d prefer that you stay. We try our best to help everyone who comes through here to acclimate, and I think we can probably help you, too. But if you must leave, we’ll help you with that, too.”

“And no weird questions about my past life or anything?” He’s clearly a natural negotiator, and Wallerton nods.

“We never press anyone to reveal more of their story than they are comfortable sharing,” Mrs. Wallerton says, leaning on the back of her husband’s chair. “You’re to take all the time you need, and if you never want to talk about it, that’s your choice.”

“What are we supposed to call you?” Alex demands.

“Jordan and Marissa are fine,” she says, and her eyes sparkle with humor. “Pretty much anything that wouldn’t get you in trouble with the censors, really. Some of our kids have called us Mr. and Mrs. W; some call us mom and dad. Whatever makes you comfortable.”

“I call them maman and papa, but you do not have to,” Laf puts in. “I am actually adopted now, so it’s different.”

“Do either of you have any questions for us?” Jordan asks.

“Yeah,” Alex says. “Why do you do this?” It feels like a test to Jack.

They look at one another for a long moment, and then Marissa gestures to her husband to speak.

“We are both Second-Timers ourselves,” he says, giving Alex a knowing little smile. “We’re fortunate. We both had easy transitions, and managed to find each other in a second lifetime, which is very rare. We had good lives, then and now, but we both felt for a long time that something was missing.” He hesitates a moment. “I neither can, nor should I, give you too much information about our pasts. That will come later, if at all. I will tell you, though, that there were several people we - lost, in that life, or between then and now. We do this work both to help others like ourselves, and to hopefully make connections with some of those we have lost, if they happen to be reincarnated in our lifetimes.”

“OK,” Alex allows. He still looks wary, but less like a feral cat.

“Jack, do you have any questions?” Marissa asks gently. “You’re awfully quiet.”

He shakes his head, not quite trusting his voice right now. Alex has done all of this before, several times. He doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing. Mostly, he just wants to lie down and stop having to keep himself upright, which is feeling like more of a challenge all the time.

“Rooms, now?” Laf pleads, and his parents laugh and allow it. He grabs both of them by a hand and starts dragging them up the grand staircase, chattering away at top speed as he does so. “You may pick which room you prefer, of course, unless both of you want the same one. In that case, I’m sure we can figure out some way to choose between you without resorting to blows or complete anarchy. Maman and I set up both rooms when we heard you were coming. I’m so glad you’re finally here! I’ve been the only one for months, and it is so boring, I cannot tell you.”

He drags them along a carpeted hallway, stopping to point out his own room, and then shoves open first one, and then another door, side by side, and gestures grandly inside. Jack peeks around the door jamb, honestly too tired to care.

One of the rooms is done in shades of forest green and cream, and the other is blue and white. They’re both elegantly furnished, and far nicer than anywhere Jack has ever lived before.

“I want green,” Alex says immediately, and he looks ready to fight for it. Jack just nods and stumbles into the blue room, dropping his suitcase on the floor, with eyes for nothing but the neatly-made bed. Alex makes a noise that sounds almost disappointed.

“I can show you around the rest of the house, and the grounds,” Laf offers excitedly. “I imagine you both know how to ride? There are stables here with several fine horses.”

Jack shudders, a sudden memory of falling from his horse taking him by surprise, and he crashes full-length on the bed without bothering to take his shoes off. “Maybe later?” he mutters into his pillow, wary of offending their new foster brother, but he’s too tired to exist anymore, and the room is starting to spin and sway around him.

“Just a sec,” Alex says, shutting Jack’s door in Laf’s surprised face. He darts over to the bedside at once, and says, sounding utterly annoyed, “You’re supposed to be making a good impression! They’re going to think you’re an absolute doormat.”

“Doormat sounds good right now,” Jack tells his pillow. “They get to lie down and not move.”

Alex groans in annoyance, but has the decency to toss the half of the bed quilt that Jack isn’t lying on over his prone form. “I’ll cover for you if I can,” he mutters. Jack can’t even answer.

He falls into a deep and awful sleep very fast, and can’t seem to pull himself out of it. The headache and fever and muscle aches get worse, and his skin feels like it’s on fire. He feels like he’s drifting back and forth between this cool, comfortable bed and another that is prickly and smells of straw and sweat. The fever and pain comes with him no matter where he goes.

“Laurens! What ails you, man?” someone asks in one moment, and then next, he hears Alex by his bedside again.

“Hey! Wake up! I told them you were tired because you didn’t sleep last night.” He’s quiet a minute. “Jack? Are you ok?”

He can’t make himself respond. He’s back in the smelly room with the mattress that pricks at him, and someone is shaking his shoulder. “It’s the marsh fever,” they say. “Do you wish a priest sent for, if it seems that you will not recover?”

“Am I dying?” Jack asks, but it’s Marissa who answers him, wiping his forehead gently with a cool cloth.

“Of course not, sweetheart. You’re fine. Your body is remembering an illness you had before.” She adjusts the quilt, tucking it closer to him with kind hands. “You’re not even feverish, but I know it doesn’t feel that way. Don’t worry. This will pass, and then everything will be easier.”

It’s impossible not to believe her, and Jack forces himself to open his eyes a crack and look at her. She smiles at him. His mother never has time to sit with him like this when he’s sick. She brushes his hair back from his face, and her image goes hazy again as his eyes close against his will.

“Will you stay?” he manages to say, through a throat that feels like it’s on fire. “I don’t want to die alone again.”

He can’t hear her answer, if she makes one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll write short chapters for this one, I told myself. It'll be more reasonable that way, I told myself. I'll make myself keep a decent sleep schedule this time, I told myself.
> 
> Friends, I lied. 
> 
> So here, have some first day of foster care angst! It really is amazing, you know - they honestly do just hand you a kid and let you walk away with them. Fostering is a strange, difficult, and essential work; the world would be infinitely better if we weren't needed to do it. 
> 
> Also, historical note - John Laurens was probably suffering from malaria in the days before his death, but no-one knew anything about the disease for almost a hundred years after, so marsh fever was the accepted explanation most of the time. So, you know, just in case you weren't sad enough yet. I live to serve. I have the honor to be, etc - Kivrin


	5. five

He’s better the next day, and functional by the third, if not fully back to normal. The headache and pain dies away to something manageable, and the phantom fever abates.

“It’s not unheard of,” Jordan tells him. “Usually only illnesses that caused you a great deal of suffering or trouble in the previous life make it through, but given that it seems to have happened in fairly close conjunction with your death, sometimes that pushes it over the edge.” He chuckles uncomfortably. “I died of a killer sore throat, essentially. The first few days after I started retrieving my memories were fairly horrible.”

“I-”, Jack starts, and cuts himself off. Jordan is sitting with him at the breakfast table, since Jack still doesn’t have the energy to do much of anything. Laf has dragged Alex off to look at horses, and Alex has gone, but Jack suspects it’s more to get a sense of the land and property than due to any real interest in horses.

“Go on,” Jordan says, smiling. “You’re allowed to ask questions, you know.”

“I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about our past lives?” He keeps his eyes on his cereal bowl, unsure if he’s overstepping the boundaries of propriety. Alex had certainly reacted as if he’d done something wrong in asking about his past.

Jordan gives a thoughtful hum, and considers for a moment. “It’s a bit complicated. We’re not meant to give out identifying information; there’s concern that unscrupulous people on both sides of the equation would misuse that information. Some people interpret that to mean we should never acknowledge our pasts at all, but I don’t agree. Especially amongst ourselves, there’s more value in sharing experiences and helping one another.”

“But telling people who exactly you were-”

“Is generally frowned upon. Within our own circles, it’s acceptable if everyone is agreed. Marissa and I, naturally, often discuss the past, since we shared a life then.”

Jack darts a look at him, and finds he looks fond and thoughtful. He can probably ask a few more questions. “Is that common? To find someone you knew in your past life?”

“More common than you’d think,” he says wryly. “I’m sure you’ve heard we tend to find reincarnations occurring in clusters? For whatever reason, it seems that frequently a group with established ties in a previous life will be reincarnated together. We’ve seen reincarnation bonds within families and armies, religious movements, romantic relationships and intense friendships. I can’t ever make any promises, but most Second-Timers have a pretty good hope that the most important people in their first life might show up again this time around.”

_Alexander_ , his heart sings suddenly, and he doesn’t have a clue why.

“But the odds of finding those few people in the entire world seem so small,” Jack points out. Jordan nods.

“It’s part of why we’ve established programs like this one to try to gather and orient Second-Timers. We form our own networks of knowledge and influence, and make introductions where appropriate. Marissa and I found one another through a shared mutual friend who was able to put our stories together and work out that we were connected.”

There’s an appeal in that idea - that he might find people who had mattered to him in his first life, that he might be able to connect with them. It’s not something he’s been particularly good at in this lifetime, that much is certain. There’s no-one from home for him to miss except his parents, and that seems like a negative commentary on his life.

He’s probably used up his supply of questions for now, though Jordan doesn’t seem to be in any hurry. He works from home as some kind of political consultant, from what Jack can make out, and Marissa is a lawyer who keeps weird, intense hours that sometimes let her remain home for significant amounts of time. That’s what he’s gathered from Laf, anyway, and if it’s a bit confused, Jack isn’t honestly sure whether to blame his fuzzy brain or Laf’s rather scattered way of explaining things.

Laf has done absolutely no calming down since they arrived. It’s a bit amusing and a bit concerning. He’s got a story of his own, Jack knows, and they’ve only heard pieces of it, but he’s figured out that Laf’s birth parents in this life were kind of a huge problem, which is why he’s now one of the Wallertons. He’d given an easy, offhanded explanation that he struggles with ADHD due to prenatal drug exposure, and flitted on to another subject, as if it didn’t matter. Maybe it doesn’t, to him. Jack has only known Laf two days, and has spent most of that time sick in bed, but from what he’s seen, very little seems to bother him for long.

He does have a tendency to appear very suddenly and stare at Jack intently, like he’s looking for something, and then vanish again. It’s not threatening or unfriendly - Laf would obviously give Jack or Alex the shirt off his back if it were needed - but it bothers him, a bit. He doesn’t like to feel like he’s letting his new foster brother down just by existing, but that’s how it seems. Laf is always watching them, waiting for something that Jack doesn’t know how to give him. He doesn’t ask anything, not yet, but Jack can tell it’s taking all his self-control not to.

Alex had wandered into his room last night, waking Jack from an unpleasant dream, and stood awkwardly at the foot of his bed, fidgeting, for a while. “What I said,” he announced after a moment. “Before? About foster care? It might not apply to these people.”

“Oh, good,” was all Jack had been able to come up with in response. It’s not his wittiest answer, but to be fair, he was still concerned that he was dying of remembered cholera or tuberculosis or whatever people had died of in the past.

“Just because I thought I might have scared you with it,” Alex had gone on, but there was something more underneath it, Jack could tell. “I’ve never been in a home that’s like this, before. I might stick around more than a week. We’ll see.”

Jack didn’t want to say that he had a lot more on his plate to be worried about than Alex’s fears of foster care, but that didn’t seem super supportive, and he wasn’t up for a whole conversation, anyway. He had nodded, and then probably drifted back to sleep while Alex stood there, still gazing awkwardly at the foot of his bed. Not his friendliest behavior, to be sure, but again, dying and all.

Jordan waits to be sure he’s done talking, and then clears his own dishes and heads to his office, telling Jack he’s free to interrupt any time. They’re working on getting Jack and Alex registered at the school that Laf attends, but that’s not going to happen until at least Monday, so he has a little time to adjust. Laf has been allowed to stay home for a few days as well, to ease their transition. It’s the first day Jack’s felt well enough to do any kind of exploring, and he wastes a good hour or two wandering around the house and the grounds. It’s a good chance for him to start sorting out what he knows about his own previous life and death, in this little space of time with no-one else talking at him.

He knows how he died, and vaguely when, within about a fifty-year window. He knows he’d been sick first, sick enough that someone had been concerned he would die. He’s had some of the dreams repeated enough times to grasp hold of more details; he’d been in command of troops, and on a horse, and-

There’s nothing more, yet. Marissa had assured him the second day that what he was struggling with was normal. The first set of memories to return, memories of dying, were the hardest for the brain to process. “Our brains don’t handle the concept of their own death well,” she’d told him. “Give it a month or two, and the dreams and details should start to settle down.” He’s still struggling with sudden attacks of anxiety that come on without warning, especially around tall grass or at the sound of sharp noises, but at least here, it’s not a spectacle. He’s not the only one.

Laf and Alex find him after a while, sitting under an apple tree in the garden. He’s worn himself out for now, and the idea of just lying in the grass and going back to sleep is appealing.

“Hey, doormat,” Alex says, cheerfully enough. “Done dying of plague now?”

“Ha, ha,” Jack says dryly. “I’ll have you know I was shot to death, thanks. Loads more glorious.”

“Like you’re the only one,” Alex says loftily, but Jack can see a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. He’s come uncurled a little, here, Jack thinks, and then isn’t quite sure what he means by it; Alex is more at ease, though, and less prone to snap at people since they got here. “I imagine lots of Second-Timers were shot, or stabbed, or likewise murdered on the bloody fields of history. Happened a lot in the past.”

“Not me,” Laf says, flinging himself full length on the grass and propping his chin up on his hands. “I died of pneumonia after being caught in a thunderstorm. It’s not so bad, though. I was very old, so I remembered as a child, and it was not as hard on me.” He gestures at Jack, looking sympathetic. “I would not want to be just learning all of this now. I am sorry for you, my friend.”

“Hey, don’t be,” Jack tells him. “Who knows? Maybe I died a famous hero and there are monuments to my brave sacrifice?” He doesn’t actually care about that, but it rankles, to be pitied. He makes himself grin, channeling a little of Alex’s customary attitude. “Bet I was incredibly successful and handsome last time.” The words are sour in his mouth. He might not know much yet, but he knows he died ashamed of his failure. Whatever it had been.

“I was,” Laf says nostalgically. He rolls over and stares up into the brilliant blue sky of a Virginia autumn, as though he can look through it into the past. “I was ever so famous and glorious. A life such as mine - ah! I cannot hope to do so well a second time.”

Alex, who is leaning against the tree, kicks a little rock with what Jack thinks is sullen bad aim. “Keep your mouth shut about it, Laf. No need to rub it in.”

“You remember who you were, then?” Laf asks, tipping his head back even farther to look at Alex upside down. Jack stifles a grin, imagining exactly what Laf’s hair is going to look like when he sits up.

“A lot of it,” Alex says. His voice is flat. “The last twenty years or so, more’s the pity. They started coming back when I was twelve.”

“I was six,” Laf says cheerfully. “I remember more all the time, but there is still a large part left to learn.” He gazes back into the sky again. “Ahhh, to be back there now. What a time it was! What glories we saw!”

Alex snorts. “Glories. Yeah.” He kicks another rock. “These glorious memories can fuck right off, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve got my own life to live now. I’m not letting my past screw it up for me.”

“I thought you said we become more ourselves as we learn who we were?” Jack says, squinting up at Alex through a beam of sunlight that framed him in an angelic glow - which is pretty amusing in and of itself, really.

“Sure.” Alex shrugs. “Doesn’t mean I have to be the same person again, though. I intend to learn from his faults and failings. I intend to do better.”

That’s closer to how Jack feels about it, but he doesn’t like the way Laf’s face falls at that. “Laf, you were only six?” he asks, trying to stop the conversation from falling apart. “Wasn’t it awful, having to remember dying and everything when you were so young?”

“No, as I said, it was not so bad,” Laf tells him. “I died in my bed, with plenty of time to say my goodbyes and make peace with my death. It was not hard to remember it, or to be grateful for it, even when I was young. And besides, I was too young to understand that not everyone has the same experience.”

That actually does make sense, and Jack nods a little. Everything is easier to accept if you don’t know there are other options.

“Do you know who the Wallertons were?” Alex asks Laf suddenly, as if he can’t hold the question back any longer. “I have the weirdest feeling that I should remember them, and I can’t, but I think they recognize me, and I hate it.”

“Yes, I know,” Laf says quietly. “I knew them very well in my previous life. I do not think I ought to tell you of that, though, if you do not know it yourself.”

“You said we’re not supposed to ask,” Jack points out. Alex huffs impatiently.

“This is different. Jordan keeps staring at me, like he’s waiting for my hair to burst into flame or something. I can’t take it much longer.”

“I cannot tell you much,” Laf says, clearly working on being circumspect. (If Jack’s vocabulary keeps improving, he’s going to ace his SAT’s by the time he knows his own name.) “I think they do know you, though - or they are hoping they do. Jordan and Marissa have been working very hard, for a long time, to find some of us.” He indicates himself, and the world at large. “We all know not everyone will come back, but there are a few who they feel a particular connection to, whom they are hoping will be given another chance.”

“Is that what it’s about?” Jack asks, sitting up further with interest. “A second chance? And if so, did we have to earn it the first time around?”

Laf shrugs. “I don’t know. I doubt it. I had a good life; I accomplished almost everything I wanted, and died without feeling any great need to repair wrongs or seek a second chance. No-one knows why we have returned.”

“Maybe we’re meant to make amends,” Alex says gloomily. “Maybe it’s like purgatory or something. We have to make up for what we did wrong the first time.” That, depressingly, feels like a more accurate assessment, but Jack knows there are as many theories of reincarnation as there are theorists, and none of them have a scrap of evidence.

“No,” Laf objects. “I have known many Second-Timers, and most of them had exceptional lives the first time. We tend to be famous, you know, which is part of why they want us kept quiet. We did well for ourselves before, and cannot be allowed to do too well this time around.” That’s depressing, too, in a completely different way. Jack hates reincarnation theory.

“So you think the Wallertons think they know who you were?” Jack asks Alex, to get them off that topic. Alex shrugs.

“That, or they’re planning to roast me alive and are just chatting about how best to do it.” He grins, sharp and dangerous. “If they want to know, they could ask.”

“So could you,” Laf points out. “If you want to know why you know Jordan.”

Alex looks thoughtful. “Maybe. It might drive me crazy if I can’t remember.”

“How far back have you gone?” Laf whispers the question, as if they’re treading on forbidden ground here, and Alex wrinkles his nose in thought.

“1785, maybe? I think that’s the earliest I’ve seen on letters or anything.” He rubs his eyes. “Gives me a headache, even thinking about all that old handwriting. I’ve about gone cross eyed trying to remember what any of it was or said. Impossible to read.”

_Adieu, my dear friend_

The words seem to float before Jack’s eyes, in a tight, hard-to-read script that he can see, just for an instant, proceeding from the tip of his own quill. His hands fly up to his head involuntarily; the damnable buzzing has started up again.

_While circumstances place so great a distance between us, I entreat you not to withdraw the consolation of your letters_

“See?” Alex says knowingly, nudging Jack softly with the side of his foot. “You’re thinking about the damn things, aren’t you? You’ll give yourself a migraine trying to remember any of it.”

But I do remember, Jack thinks - and then it’s gone, leaving nothing but the vague memory of words that had been so clear before, and the almost overwhelming loneliness and sorrow that had gone into the writing of them. His throat is thick with the memory of that moment, and he can’t breathe through it until it fades a little, dulling to a too-present ache.

“Oh, I’ve only got back to ‘86 so far,” Laf says, ignoring the problem of handwriting entirely. “We were alive at the same time, then! I wonder if we knew one another?”

“I doubt I’m likely to have forgotten you,” Alex says, grinning obnoxiously at Laf. “We probably never met. Or maybe we hated each other?”

“Who knows?” Laf is amused by this, and laughs aloud. Some of the buzzing dies down, and Jack can breathe properly again. “Maybe I’m the one who shot you. I can imagine you provoking me to that end!”

“No,” Alex says, suddenly sad and tired. “No, I know who shot me. It wasn’t you.”

They’re all quiet at that, an awkward silence that makes Jack think someone needs to publish a guide to etiquette for Second-Timers. He can imagine a section on Morbid Conversations on Your Own Death.

“If you’re one of the ones Jordan’s looking for,” Laf finally says, changing the subject with a determined air. “Don’t expect to leave here again. He is very determined with us.” He grins again, up into the blue sky. “He and Marissa will have you adopted before you can sneeze.”

“I don’t need it,” Alex snaps. He kicks a rock again; his short-lived amusement is gone. “I’m not looking for parenting or my past. I just want a place to land for a little while so I can sort out my plans for the future.” He glances back at the house. “This could work, but not if they’re the suffocating sort.”

“Jack!” Jordan’s voice comes from the back door, far enough away that they all know he’s not been eavesdropping, but it makes them jump anyway. “Come on in here, would you?”

He gets up reluctantly, already regretting losing his warm spot under the tree. Alex jumps into it at once and sticks his tongue out irreverently. Jack pretends he didn’t see. He lopes off to find Jordan, who’s waiting for him, looking somewhat uncertain.

“Jack, there’s a call for you,” Jordan says, ushering him inside. “Your social worker set up your online visitation schedule, but apparently forgot to inform us of it. Your parents are on the line.”

“Visitation?” Jack says blankly. “I didn’t ask for any-”

“It’s part of your case plan,” Jordan explains. “We try to keep everyone in contact with their families, maintain those connections as best we can.” He leads Jack back into the kitchen, where a laptop is set up on the table. “Feel free to take the call anywhere you want. Your privacy will always be respected.” He puts a hand gently on Jack’s shoulder, pats him once or twice, and fades away, back to his own work. Jack stands at the door for a moment, uncertain, then moves to see the screen.

It’s not both of his parents. His mother is on the other side, staring at her phone with an expression of pained patience. She never has liked having to wait for him. He goes to sit in front of the computer, waving lamely at her when she notices him.

“Oh, Jack, there you are,” she says, somewhere between relieved and apprehensive. “How are you, darling?”

“Fine,” he says, even though his head is still buzzing and all his muscles still ache. She’d never been comfortable dealing with his real illnesses as a child; he can’t imagine she’d know what to do with knowledge about what he’s been experiencing. “Everyone’s been really nice.”

“Oh, good,” she says, and pauses. “Your father’s at work, of course. He says hello.” Jack knows that’s a lie, but he accepts it with good grace. “So, tell me, darling, have they been able to help you with - you know,” her voice drops to a whisper. “Your problem?”

She makes it sound like he has an STD or something, and it’s not quite as funny as it should be. He wrinkles his nose at her. “Mom, it’s not like there’s a cure or anything.”

“But they said there would be therapies and whatnot,” she protests. “They said they’d be able to help!”

“They’re trying to help us understand and deal with our pasts,” he offers. “Therapies can make it easier to integrate the memories, apparently, but I’ve just been getting settled in here.”

“Then they won’t be able to - to fix you?” His mother’s voice is querulous. “I thought this was going to make you well!”

“I’m not broken, mom,” he says tiredly, even though that’s precisely how he feels right now. It’ll get better, though. It has to. Laf and Alex are handling it just fine. He’ll get better at it, too. “I’m not ill. This is part of my life now. I can’t make it go away.”

“Oh,” she says. There’s a long silence. “Well, I’m afraid I’d better run, dear. I have a committee meeting this evening.” He knows her committee meetings, and exactly how much wine they run through in an evening; he just nods. “We’ll call again another day,” she says vaguely.

“Ok,” Jack murmurs. “Bye.” She waves, and breaks the connection, and he stares at the screen.

_While circumstances place so great a distance between us_ , he thinks again, bleakly, the ancient inked words bleeding back into his mind with an echo of the loss he’d known, _I entreat you not to withdraw the consolation of your letters._

He makes a note to ask his social worker to stop them from calling again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sad, you're sad. 
> 
> I'm actually relieved that so many of you have said you're not big readers of reincarnation sorts of stories, in a strange way. I may not know what I'm doing, but as long as you also don't know what I'm doing, it seems like it'll work out! I'm thinking about giving myself permission to write a whole series of the tropey-est trope fics in the world, shamelessly and without any sense of self-preservation. 
> 
> Thank you guys so much for reading and commenting and being so kind. Adoringly yrs - Kivrin.


	6. six

They’re meant to start at school on Monday. Jack can’t be much less excited about this prospect even if he tries, although Laf assures them both that it’s a wonderful school. It probably is, but Jack already has so much on his plate that the idea of adding full days of academics is exhausting. Jordan and Marissa assure them that, while education is important, it’s not actually the be all and end all.

“Little secret for us Second-Timers,” Jordan says with a grin. “We tended to get really good educations in a lot of areas the first time around, and once you have access to those memories, there’s not much you can’t manage fairly easily here. Science has to be brought up to date, of course, but you’ll find languages and mathematics and rhetoric all lodged in your heads already.”

Marissa elbows him. “All very well for you to say, mister privilege! That only holds true if you weren’t enslaved or lower class or offensively female!” Jordan winces in acknowledgement. “You will tend to find you learn things more easily, though. There are benefits to experience. And we think it’s more important to make sure that you’re doing well mentally and emotionally; academics can always be made up later. We need to get you through the hard parts, here and now, and then we can worry about your futures.”

Alex doesn’t buy into any of that, naturally. Jack is beginning to suspect that Alex would disagree with anything anyone says, just on principle; sometimes it’s mean-spirited and contrarian, and sometimes it’s obvious that he wants people to talk to him, to argue with him, to assure him that he’s being heard. Jack wonders, sometimes, about the six foster homes before this one. There are reasons Alex is so touchy, he knows, although whether they’re rooted in this life or the one before, no-one but Alex could say. 

Alex chooses the most difficult schedule he can for himself, though it’s not what he’d like it to be, since he hadn’t even been registered in any school at the beginning of the school year. He’d rather be in all AP classes, and that’s not entirely possible. Jack winds up in a class or two with Alex, and a few with Laf, but none with both of them. It’s a fairly small school, and Jack knows that everyone is going to know they’re the Wallerton’s foster kids the moment they walk in the door. It won’t be the end of the world.

His dreams might be, though. After a few nights of peace, the screaming terrors are back, with flickers of violence and death and losses so painful he wakes up unable to breathe. A few images, seemingly little more than transient memories, start popping up in his mind. A man in a blue uniform coat, pointing a pistol at him as John aims his own at the man’s chest. A young woman in distress, crying as she tells him something he can’t hear. Dead soldiers - a lot of them, some dead at his hand. There’s no glory in the glimpses he sees when he closes his eyes - just blood and screaming, young men dead on the ground, and people in chains. He hates it all.

Over the weekend, they start therapy. It’s - not what he’d expected. The Wallertons aren’t psychologists or therapists - but they are Second-Timers, and they have a lot of experience helping young people through the process of regaining their previous lives. 

”We’re very aware of the fact that we’re engaged in a delicate balancing act here,” Marissa tells all three of them on Saturday. Laf looks like he’s heard this before, but he doesn’t object. “On the one hand, you are very much modern-day teenagers, living in the twenty-first century. Your futures are here, and you need to be able to make your way in this world. On the other hand, you are also people of an older time, and all of you have been through experiences that will have left marks. Nobody gets to be a Second-Timer without a sufficient burden of trauma to cripple you, without managing it properly. We aim to look after both parts of you, until you can integrate them together in a functional way.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Alex asks, glaring at the mantlepiece over the fireplace. “That sounds like a bunch of pop psychology nonsense.”

“It is, and it isn’t,” Jordan says, frowning in concentration. “It’s very hard to explain how it works until you’re past it. It isn’t until you have enough of your memories - sometimes all of them - that your past can make sense to you, and it isn’t until then that you can accept it fully and move forward.” He leans forward over the table, where they’re all seated, and looks intently at Alex until he has to meet his gaze. “Let me tell you, young man. You don’t know your whole story yet.”

“I know plenty,” Alex snaps. His face is wrinkled in an expression of disgust. 

“You know the ending, where your failures and regrets were made manifest,” Jordan shoots back. “You don’t know what brought you to that place, what made you into the person you were.”

“And if I don’t care about any of that?”

“Sorry, love,” Marissa says, more gently but no less firmly. “It’s a package deal. It’s not like the history books. They get to neaten everything up into a narrative, usually with a moral attached, and judge us very simply. You were not a simple person - and I know this because no-one ever is. Whatever has you so angry at your past, you can’t just reject all of that life, especially before you know the whole story.”

They don’t make them share traumas and stories from the past, which was what Jack had been dreading. They do play board games - Alex and Jordan almost come to blows over a game of Risk that threatens to devolve into real-life war - and cook meals together - Laf is startlingly good at focusing in the face of potential fire - and ride horses. Jack hates that idea, and hates the reality of it even more, for a while. 

On Sunday, they get a whole lecture on the therapeutic value of horseback riding, but Jack is pretty sure that both of the Wallertons are just a little horse crazy and are looking for excuses to share their passion with their charges.

“You all know how to ride, right?” Jordan says, and it’s barely a question. He seems confident that they’re all expert horsemen. 

“No,” Jack tells him. “Not really.” He’s ridden before, if you count a pony at a country fair when he was six. He doesn’t. 

“You’ll pick it up fast,” Marissa assures him. “Don’t worry! We’ll be right with you.” They set him up with a very gentle mare called Nancy, and he spends the first half-hour clutching her sides frantically with his legs, clinging tightly to the reins even though he knows they won’t keep him from falling. Marissa walks by his side, giving him pointers, and he gradually relaxes into the posture, growing more confident. 

“Let’s go for a little trail ride, shall we?” Marissa suggests, and everyone else seems to think that’s a marvelous idea. Alex and Laf look like they were born in the saddle, and both of them have a way with the horses that makes Jack suspect they remember it from an older life. It’s not anything particularly obvious - just little flickers of behavior or language that aren’t what he expects from them, exactly. Laf is calmer, more steady, more self-assured; Alex is more relaxed, and Jack occasionally sees him patting the horse fondly. 

Jack thinks trail riding is a terrible idea, but he’s not about to say so. He falls in behind the others and does his best not to fall off, letting Nancy the horse do all the leading. She’s clearly more of an expert than he is, and he’s willing to let her be in charge. 

He’s actually doing ok, even with the horse thing, until they crest a little rocky hill and find themselves in a wide, open plain with a path for the horses, and fields of green on both sides. The others pick up a bit of speed, and Jack does his best not to lose his grip. There’s something very wrong, if he can only figure out what it is -

Ambush, his mind tells him again. He’s back in the field again by the Combahee River, and the fields are full of enemies. But that’s not right - it was grass, then, and these fields look like tobacco - but that’s not right, either. His father grew rice. 

The wind rustles the crops, and Jack pulls Nancy to a halt, fighting off wave after wave of memories that tell him he’s about to be killed, again, and slides off the horse before he can be shot off again. He stumbles away from her, unable to bear the smell of horse and dust and fear, even though it’s not the same, this isn’t right-

Jordan comes back to find him a few moments later, when Jack is huddled under the only shade tree he can find, keeping his back to the solid trunk as he watches the fields warily. Nancy is nearby, placidly chewing something green. 

Jordan dismounts and comes over, though not too near, and sits on the ground in front of him. “Something happen?” He keeps his voice neutral. Jack shrugs. 

“Just - I sort of got - uhh, ambushed by memories.” It’s an awkward way to phrase it, and Jordan raises an eyebrow, apparently drawn by his emphasis. 

“Ambushed?” 

Jack sighs, and snatches a few long strands of grass from beside him, weaving the strands together to give himself something to do with his hands. Three strands, braided together. Past, present, future. Something’s got to make them all into a coherent whole.

“It’s about all I’ve remembered clearly,” he says, keeping his voice low. “We were ambushed from tall grass, and I fell from my horse.” 

“That’s how you died?” Jordan asks, somehow managing to make even that question gently. Jack nods, and rubs unthinkingly at the mark on his chest. It doesn’t really hurt anymore, but he still tries not to look at it or think about it. “Ok, that tells us a few things. For one, horses and tall plants are potential triggers for you. Until you get the trauma of your death more integrated, more acceptable to your conscious mind, those things are liable to set off episodes of PTSD, for lack of a better word.”

“I can’t just avoid plants forever,” Jack objects. Jordan shakes his head. 

“No, but you can work on desensitizing yourself to them, over time. We can teach you some exercises to use to help ground yourself in the present when memories threaten to sweep you away.” He looks distant. “For a long time, I couldn’t handle winter weather. The sight of snow about broke me. It gets better, I promise.”

Jack shivers as another wave of nauseating memory threatens - smells and sounds, a pulse of phantom pain in his chest, and oh, he has failed in everything he ever set his hand to do. It is little surprise that he would meet his end like this - no glory, no valor, no chance to die for anything that matters -

Jordan waits until he’s back to himself entirely, and nods slowly. “Yeah, I think some grounding exercises will help. And you know, son, you could have told us horses might be a problem. We wouldn’t have been offended.” 

“You know who Alex was, don’t you?” Jack says, because he doesn’t want to talk about this anymore, doesn’t want Jordan to press him on the details. “In his first life?”

“I have my suspicions,” Jordan says evenly. “We’ll see if they’re borne out.”

“Is he one of the ones you’re looking for?” Jack doesn’t let that question sound wistful, even when it wants to. Alex deserves to have people looking for him, welcoming him in this life. He’s only known Alex for a few days, but he obviously could use help accepting his past. If Wallerton valued the person he had been, it would have to help Alex accept him, in the end. 

“I think so.” Jordan smiles, wistful and nostalgic, and Jack’s heart gives a jealous little pang. “If I’m right, he was someone very dear to me, and someone I would very much like to see given a chance to right himself this time around. Life was not kind to him, before.”

“And if he isn’t?” He doesn’t want to come right out and ask what the Wallertons do with kids who aren’t what they’re looking for, but it’s sort of imperative that he know, because eventually they’re going to work out that Jack was a disappointment, then and now. 

“We won’t send him away, if that’s what you mean. Most of the kids who have come through our home haven’t been the sort of long-term connections we are keeping our eyes out for, but that didn’t make them any less welcome in our home.”

But those kids aren’t there now, Jack thinks. Not that he needs to stay forever, or even wants to. He has parents to go back to, once he’s learned how to manage this business. He hopes, though, for Alex’s sake, that Jordan is right. He deserves the love Jack sees in them for Laf, and for the missing ones they’re looking for. He’s better than he believes he is, and maybe the Wallertons can make him see that.

He nods, so Jordan will know he’s heard him, but he can’t think of anything else to say that won’t betray more than he’s willing to share right now. The strands of grass he’s been braiding together fall apart in his fingers; one strand was far too short. 

“Why don’t we walk the horses back?” Jordan suggests after a while. He gets up with a labored grunt. “I’m getting too old to sit on the ground. You ask me, that’s what’s unfair about this whole business. A man shouldn’t have to go through the aging process twice.”

Jack laughs politely, but there’s a lump in his throat. He apparently hadn’t managed it even once. Why was he back for another shot at life, when he’d died young, a failure? He takes Nancy’s reins and walks beside her, back toward the house. 

“We won’t push you to divulge anything you aren’t comfortable telling us,” Jordan says after a while. “But if there are things that are bothering you, son, please consider letting us know. We’d like to help.”

“I think,” Jack says, swallowing the urge to say that everything is fine, that he has it under control, “I think I’d like to learn those grounding exercises you talked about. If you have time.”

“We have all the time in the world,” Jordan assures him. “It’s the one thing we’ve been blessed with in abundance.”

~~~~~

He learns a few tricks he can take with him to the new school on Monday, but he doesn’t wind up needing them the first day. His past seems to recede into the background, not intruding, as he struggles to acclimate to a brand new set of challenges in the present. Starting at a new school is never easy, and starting mid-semester while everyone looks at you with pity is even harder. 

He sticks close to Alex and Laf when he can, and keeps his head down in classes to the best of his ability. Nobody gives them any trouble; Laf has assured them that everyone respects the Wallertons, and that students are sort of used to their foster kids coming and going. Still, there’s a new building to learn, and a new schedule, and entirely new teachers. The teachers are all nice enough, but the history class he’s in with Alex is so deadly dull that they’re passing one another notes within the first ten minutes. Alex’s handwriting is shockingly tidy; Jack had expected it to tumble all over itself, the way his thoughts seem to. There’s not much to say - they’re still in the process of getting to know one another, and there are so many potential landmines that Jack is absolutely not going to be the first to ask Alex any questions, but it’s nice, to have someone to exchange glances with when the teacher threatens to bore them to death. They’ve already died once; this wouldn’t be the way Jack would choose to go a second time. 

They gravitate toward one another at lunch, and there’s a solidness there between the three of them that Jack is never going to take for granted. He’s rarely had friends to eat with, especially since the start of high school, but there’s no question that Alex and Laf will be waiting for him. That means a lot. He thinks Alex feels the same wonder at that, judging from how he’s watching them both. 

They’ve put him in an art class for some reason, and Jack is trying to have a good attitude about it, but he’s not artistic. He’s weeks behind the rest of the class, of course, but his hope is that he can keep his head down and not draw attention to his complete lack of artistic ability. The teacher is lecturing about perspective today, but he gives them free access to art supplies and tells them to work on whatever they want as they listen, as long as they work on applying what they’re learning. Feeling slightly daring, Jack goes for an old-fashioned pan, the kind with a nib and free-flowing ink, and just lets himself doodle as he listens. 

There’s a familiarity in the motion of the pen that shouldn’t be there, because he’s never used anything but basic ballpoint before, and this is an entirely different experience. It’s writing with a quill, he knows in an instant, and there’s a secret joy in it, in being able to reclaim a little piece of the past that isn’t steeped in horror and fear. It feels good, the way the pen moves on the paper, and Jack lets his hands do what they want as he tries to learn about perspective. 

There’s a face on the page by the time he’s done, and he doesn’t know whose it is. It’s recognizable as a face, which is better than anything he’s ever produced before, and looking at it, Jack feels a little flicker of recognition. The face is of a young man, laughing at something. His nose is long and straight, and his eyes are somehow bright, even in black and white.

I know you, Jack thinks. He puts the paper away carefully when class is over, as if it’s something more significant than ink on paper. 

It’s the first thing from his former life that has made him smile. 

Screaming nightmares come back to plague him that night, because of course they do, and when Jack wakes up, he decides to take Marissa up on her offer of hot chocolate available in the kitchen at all times, should they need it. He pads down the stairs quietly, and isn’t entirely shocked to find Laf already sitting at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around his own steaming mug. None of them sleep particularly well, and Laf has already told him that he often finds it hard to go back to sleep after a vivid dream. His mind starts racing and won’t let him sleep again, he’s said, and Jack knows what he means.

“Hey,” he whispers, not wanting to startle Laf in the darkness.

“Welcome to the club,” Laf says, smiling wryly up at him. Jack finds enough hot milk in the pan on the stove to make himself a mug of hot chocolate, and sits down opposite Laf. They share a companionable silence for a few minutes. 

“So, what are we supposed to do in this club?” Jack asks, feeling slightly bolder than usual. The dark and quiet make it easier to ask, somehow. 

Laf shrugs. “Some people like to talk about what they remember. Others like to talk about anything but.” 

Jack thinks of his dream - riding, feverish, at the head of his little company, trying to reach the redoubt in time to stop the raiding party when they fled from General Gist; the grass bristling with muskets; ordering a charge that never had a hope of success - 

He makes himself stop, using the grounding techniques he’s learning. He feels the warmth of the mug between his hands, presses his feet hard against the cold tiles of the floor, makes his body recognize that it’s not bleeding out in the dirt anymore. It helps, a bit. 

“I don’t think I’m a talker,” he admits to Laf. “Not yet, anyway. You?”

“Sometimes I like to, when it’s something exciting I’ve remembered,” Laf says. “This time, it was just - lonely.” He shudders at that, and Jack knows what he means, somehow. “I was in prison for a long time, alone, before my wife and daughters were allowed to join me. I miss them now, too, but not as I did then.”

It should sound absurd, a boy his own age talking of his wife and children, but Laf’s eyes are very old in the dim kitchen. There’s nothing laughable in it. 

They’re silent for a while, and Jack hopes it’s helping, somehow. At least Laf isn’t literally alone. 

“Can I ask you something?” he says after a while. 

“Anything!” Laf brightens up a bit, just at the idea of being able to help.

“You’ve clearly known who you were for a while. Did you do, like, research? To figure it out? Or did it just dawn on you eventually?”

Laf looks thoughtful. “I was so young that I knew who I had been before I was capable of doing anything like that. I think I would have figured it out sooner, if I’d been able to. I found books on all of it when I was older, though, and researched all I could about the things I do not know yet.”

“So, do you think that’s a good idea? Or is it better to just wait and let it come naturally?” 

Laf hums thoughtfully. “I am very curious. I could not help wanting to know everything I can! Perhaps you can wait for it, but I do not know if that is better. There are some for it and some against, as with everything else about our lives.”

“I don’t know what my name was yet, but I remembered the name of a general I think I knew,” Jack offers. “I could probably look him up, if I wanted. Maybe then I’d know a little more.”

Laf shrugs. He’s very different like this, quiet and sober. The middle of the night makes people strange, Jack thinks. “It cannot hurt you to know, I think. It will all come back to you in time.” He stares into the depths of his mug. “If you do, do not rely on Wikipedia. It is not always correct, I have found.”

“Are books better, then?” Not that he’d know where to start in books - looking up a random general’s name in a selection of books on various military conflicts will probably not profit him much. Laf grins a little.

“Not always. Sometimes they conceal more than they reveal of the past, I think. If you find you are from my own time, I can give you some recommendations.”

“Thanks,” Jack says. He finishes his hot chocolate, and feels the weariness that has settled back into his bones. He’s still not sleeping anything like decent hours, and it’s beginning to take a toll. “I’d better try to go back to sleep.”

“Good night, my friend,” Laf says, and Jack leaves him in the dark with the ghosts of the past, and tries not to feel jealous that Laf at least knows who it is his heart is missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story doesn't seem to be in any huge hurry, kids. The depths of thought all of this requires is kind of mind boggling, so I hope I'm not plodding along at a snail's pace here, but there's a lot to unpack all the time. I have no clue how long this story will be! It is FASCINATING me right now, though, just in terms of how it all could work and what the implications are. I hope it's interesting to others, as well!


	7. seven

Jack holds out for two more days before curiosity gets the best of him, and he searches for General Mordecai Gist. It’s very fortunate that the man happened to have such a memorable name, because very few concrete details from his memory are staying with him, yet. He still doesn’t know his own name - but Mordecai Gist isn’t a particularly difficult name to remember.

Gist’s presence in online archives is fairly light (and Jack knows Laf would tell him to be more careful of his sources, but he’s just looking for a place to start), but it’s enough to clarify a few things for Jack.

Number one, Gist had been an American general in the Revolutionary War. That narrows things down for Jack considerably, and even more so when he pieces together the timeline to see that Gist was only promoted to General in 1779, which dates his final memories to some point after that.

Number two, Jack had thus been part of the American Revolution. It was what he’d been assuming, given his tattered memories of uniforms and muskets, but it was encouraging, in a way, to know that at least he’d been part of something bigger than himself. He may have died a failure, but the cause he’d apparently given his life for had not. That was something like consolation.

Number three, which was potentially the most exciting, was the confirmation that he was thus at least a temporal colleague of Alex and Laf. They both had memories stretching back to 1785, which meant they had all been alive at the same time. He’s not sure why it means so much to him, except that it means he’s in the right place, and he has some sort of connection with his foster brothers, who are quickly becoming more like his friends.

He could probably dig deeper at this point. There were only so many actions under the command of General Gist in South Carolina. He could probably trace down lists of casualties of those actions, and have his name somewhere in front of him.

Jack doesn’t.

He doesn’t say anything about what he’s learned, either, or ask to borrow any of Laf’s beloved books on the Revolutionary War. He’s not sure if he’s more afraid of what he might learn, or that he might not find anything.

Jordan and Marissa take turns cooking dinner with the boys every night, and they play board games when homework is done, and it’s the most oddly old-fashioned domestic form of life Jack can imagine. They’ve equipped Alex and Jack with cell phones and computers, not trying to cut them off from the present, but for some reason, Jack finds himself generally happy to leave the outside world alone, aside from attending school.

The social worker won’t cut off formal visitation with his parents, even when Jack asks; he apparently doesn’t even have the right to decide who he wants to talk to. His mom only calls about half the times she’s supposed to, though, and his dad never manages to be present. She doesn’t really have anything to say to him, and he’s not going to tell her anything about his ‘condition’, as she insists on calling it, so the required visits are very fraught and stressful. He’ll be glad when she gives up on him, he thinks, and then is depressed for a while that he has so little faith in his own parents.

Jordan doesn’t make him go on any more horse rides, but Alex and Laf go riding almost every day the weather is decent for it. He almost wishes he could face it, just to be part of that experience, but he’s got plenty to do on his own. So much. There are books to avoid and research not to let himself do, and memories to repress, and parental conversations to avoid. He’s a busy guy.

Jack does discover that his hands suddenly want to draw all the time, which is very new. Jordan, noticing his doodling, eventually presents him with a legitimate quill and ink set, like something out of Harry Potter. He smiles as Jack stares at it uncertainly.

“It won’t bite, I promise,” he chuckles. “I’ve seen the way you hold a pen when you’re not thinking about it. I’m pretty sure you spent a lot of time with tools like these in the past. Working with them now is actually a really good way to integrate your past and present, and may help you regain some of your memories in a less traumatic way. We don’t want everything that comes back to always be in the form of a nightmare or a flashback.” He flicks the end of the feather. “Try it for a few days. If it doesn’t help, no harm done.”

Jack isn’t going to do homework that way - not with how many times he blots the ink or splits the shaft in his first experimental drawing session - but there is honestly something soothing and familiar about the scratch of quill on paper, the sensations of dipping into the ink and watching it shine on the paper as it dries. His hands make themselves busy with sketching again - landscapes, the view out his bedroom window, the feral tomcat who sneaks around the yard looking to murder small wildlife. When he isn’t paying attention, though, he draws things he cannot see - turtles, for some reason, and sketches of military fortifications, and the face of the laughing man he had drawn before. He’s not always laughing - sometimes he’s sober, or preoccupied, or filled with an intensity that Jack cannot understand how he’s able to convey in a scratched-in black and white ink sketch. He’d be impressed with his own skill, but it’s not his; it’s a gift from the ghost in his head, and he doesn’t know whether to practice more or throw it all away.

He saves all the sketches of the man - hardly more than a boy, sometimes. He finds he can’t bear to throw them away.

Jordan and Marissa say he’ll start getting back his memories on a fairly steady basis after the first few months. The dreams come almost every night, and he can’t make sense of them - only the overwhelming emotions that rise up to drown him, and the images that stay in his head for hours afterwards. School isn’t always a walk in the park after a particularly bad night, but at least he doesn’t have to go alone.

Alex gets political, sometimes, and Jack watches him with a bit of envy. He wishes he had that kind of confidence, to stand up for unpopular opinions. By the third week in their new school, everyone has figured out not to engage him in political debate. It doesn’t help that their little school is shockingly non-diverse; the three of them are some of the only students of color in the whole student body. It seems wrong for Northern Virginia, but Marissa says it’s just a coincidence due to exactly how the school lines are drawn.

“We keep thinking about moving to be in a more diverse school district,” she tells Alex one day when he’s ranting about the lack of support for diversity initiatives he’s trying to put forward to the school council. “But we do love this house. We can find you a more representative school for next year, if you want - there are plenty of charter school options we can look into.”

Alex doesn’t take her up on it yet, but he doesn’t shut her down, either, and Jack doesn’t think he even realizes how settled he’s become in just a few weeks. He never talks about running away anymore, and Jack thinks about how unsurprised he’s going to be when the Wallertons start to talk about adopting Alex. He fits with them. It’s almost amazing how clear it is that he belongs there. He and Jordan are so similar, and find themselves so easily in sync, that Jack has to work hard not to feel jealous. It’s good. This is what Alex needs.

Jack wonders if he’ll be back with his parents yet by the next school year.

Jordan and Marissa have to talk Alex out of starting a chapter of a radical civil rights student group, which they only do on the grounds that they can’t back him up properly with the media or law enforcement if he gets himself in trouble. Alex pouts about it, but actually accepts their argument, eventually.

“I can’t believe we’re still dealing with this,” he rants at Laf and Jack the next time they’re all peeling potatoes together in the kitchen. (Marissa says she’s happy to feed them like growing teenagers, but she does insist they do some of the work to help prepare the food.) ”I started an anti-slavery society more than two centuries ago. If you’d told me then we’d only get this far in all that time, I probably would have punched you.”

“You are just bragging about it now because you’ve only just remembered that you did that, am I right?” Laf says knowingly, and Alex dumps a handful of potato peelings on his head. Jack laughs, and keeps his distance from the threat of more peelings on his own head.

“Hey, it can’t all be bad memories, right?” Alex says after he’s stopped blushing. “It’s nice to remember the things I didn’t get wrong. Some of my ideas were really good, you know.”

“Some day, we must compare biographies,” Laf says with a chuckle.

Alex wrinkles up his nose. “I hate all of mine I’ve ever started to read,” he says loftily. “Gave up trying them years ago.”

Laf laughs again at that, but Jack doesn’t. That’s a brand new idea for him to try to wrap his mind around - that any of them might have been significant enough in their past lives to have books written about them. It gives the history section of the school library a strangely haunted feeling the next time he passes it.

~~~~~

Fall is coming in with splendid colors by early October, and Jack’s spirits rise a bit. Some nights he gets multiple hours of sleep, and he’s handling the flashbacks better all the time when they come on him when he’s awake. The Wallertons work with all of them on coping mechanisms and managing their trauma. Laf swears by yoga, and is exceptionally good at it, but Jack is too chicken to try it yet.

Alex, who has been doing better all the time, takes a turn for the worse, seemingly out of the blue. He mopes around the kitchen at all hours, not wanting to be alone, but not seeking any of them out to actually talk. Jack starts to worry about him when he stops going riding with Laf.

“All right, oh enlightened master practitioner of reincarnation,” he tells Alex one afternoon over a post-school snack. “Tell me what horrible thing I need to expect now, because I’m guessing at this point that I’m watching you almost die of blood poisoning or something.”

“It’s too hard to explain,” he says tiredly. “You’re such an infant at all of this, you won’t get it.”

Jack tries hard not to be offended. Alex often gets too personal when he’s in a mood. “I literally have a scar from my own death wound, Alex. I’m not exactly inexperienced.”

“It’s not that,” Alex says, and he won’t make eye contact. “I just don’t think you have the experience you would need to get it.” He sighs heavily, and Jack can tell, just by the sound of it, that Alex needs to talk to someone, whether they’ll understand it or not. He can be that someone. “It’s hard to explain. Something bad is coming. In my memories, I mean. Do you ever get that feeling?”

“Not really,” Jack says, frowning. “How do you know?”

“It’s happened to me before.” Alex doesn’t seem capable of sitting still any longer; he gets up and paces to the front window, looking out into the distance. “About six months after I started getting my memories back, just as I was starting to get a handle on things, I could feel it coming. It’s - oh, I just can’t figure out how to explain this! I already knew that bad things had happened, because I had memories in the wake of it, dealing with the fallout, but as I went further back, closer to the event-” he breaks off, shivering. Jack can see his reflection in the window; his expression is very bleak. “I think he - I - my past self, I think he tried to deal with tragedies by pushing them to the back of his mind and not letting himself think about them, as much as possible. So the closer I got to remembering the event, the less he’d had a chance to distance himself from those memories, the darker it loomed. It’s like - like a river before a waterfall, getting faster and faster, and you can hear the crashing ahead, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”

“What happened?” Jack asks, and it’s no more than a whisper, because he knows very well he shouldn’t be asking such a personal question. Alex doesn’t talk about his past life; he’s been very clear about that. But he looks so distant, even a few feet away, and Jack suddenly resents the distance the past is putting between them. He can’t get up and move closer to Alex, or he would leave.

“My children,” Alex says. His voice is a broken wreck, and Jack has never, ever heard anything like it in him before. Alex doesn’t show weakness and doesn’t allow himself to crack; this is a rare glimpse of something older and deeper than the friend he’s coming to know. Jack holds his breath, afraid to break the spell of the moment. “My oldest son.” He takes a deep breath, his words fragmentary and shattered. “Died in a duel trying to defend my honor. He never should have tried.” It’s odd, in the same way as when Laf talks about his wife and children, but there’s suddenly such an age, such a weight to Alex’s words and the dip of his shoulders that Jack aches for him. “My daughter mourned him to the point of insanity. We lost both of them, in different ways.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jack whispers. He cannot imagine the grief that’s beneath these words, even as he watches Alex trying to swim in the riptide of this loss. He clutches his hands together so hard his fingers hurt; he can’t touch Alex, not right now.

“I was twelve, and I was forty-seven, and it came on me all at once, everything he’d tried to repress and avoid thinking about, avoid dealing with. I remembered all of it at once - burying Philip and sending him off with my pistols and losing Angelica in her grief, and how my wife-” he breaks off again. His hands are flat on the windowsill now, Alex pressing all his weight down through his shoulders and hands, head hanging low.

“How did you bear it?” For a moment, Jack feels a tiny part of that grief, an echo of something old and dark. He almost grasps what Alex is saying about oncoming grief.

“I didn’t.” Alex doesn’t move. “I was 12, for god’s sake. They wound up throwing me in a mental hospital for six months to keep me alive. When I got out, my parents were gone. Couldn’t deal with that kind of mental illness, they said, so it was foster care for me.”

The enormity of everything he’s been through is too much for Jack to understand. He shakes his head, silent and shocked, and Alex meets his eyes in the window reflection. He laughs, harsh and brittle.

“So when I say there’s something coming, something that feels almost as awful as that first shock, I’m not joking. It’s like a gaping wound in the middle of the world, but I don’t have a clue what’s coming at me. He shut down about it, the fucker.”

“He?” Jack asks.

“Past me, him, the bastard who’s living in my head,” Alex says impatiently. “I really hate him sometimes. Fucking up his own life wasn’t enough for him, so now he’s screwing with mine.” He turns around, starts pacing again, like a caged lion. “Whatever this one is, I only get hints of how dark it is, but I can feel it coming. I don’t know how to handle it any better than last time.”

“I think you should talk to Jordan and Marissa,” Jack says. He’s careful to keep his suggestion quiet and reserved; Alex doesn’t like being told what to do at the best of times. “They know more about this than any of us, for certain.” He hates the idea of whatever is waiting for Alex, and the idea of a loss that strikes him hard enough to send him to a hospital is terrifying.

Alex snorts. “And have them force me to share all my feelings with the class, and draw pictures of my emotions, and feed them to a feelings monster? No thanks.”

“There is absolutely no way they’d do any of that,” Jack protests. “Come on, Alex, we’ve been here a month now, and they’ve never done anything like that. I know it sucks, having to share any of this stuff, but honestly, they can help.”

“And you’ve asked for so much help?” Alex snaps, not breaking his stride or altering his course. “You won’t even acknowledge that anything is going on with you, even when you’re screaming yourself hoarse every night. Don’t preach what you won’t practice, Jack.”

Angry is better, somehow, than the brokenness he’d seen before, and some reckless old part of Jack stirs itself to life. “OK, fine,” he says, and gives a lazy shrug, because he knows that will annoy Alex. “Tit for tat, though I’ve got almost nothing to play with. How did you die?”

“Painfully,” Alex hisses, glaring at Jack as he paces. “Shot in the ribs in a moronic fucking duel. Took me a day to die, and my wife and children all came and watched.”

Jack taps the scar on his chest, absurdly angry at the idea of Alex dying that way, though he really can’t say why it’s upsetting him so much. They’re all dead, and it hardly matters how, does it?

“Shot while getting my men killed in a moronic ambush,” he shoots back. “I bled out, alone, while the British stole our howitzer. Couldn’t even get myself killed properly, without causing more trouble.”

Alex looks vaguely impressed. “At least you died with honor, on the field of battle,” he says bitterly. “By the time I died, I’d pretty much ruined my name, my finances, my legacy. Awesome deathbed ruminations, let me tell you.”

“What honor? I didn’t even make it to thirty,” Jack retorts. “I can’t even remember my own name yet, but I promise you there aren’t monuments with it engraved. You and Laf - I can tell, from things you’ve said. You did great things with your lives.” What he can’t bring himself to say, even to Alex, even in this moment of sharing their woes, is that he’d known as he was dying that he wasn’t going to be missed.

“Well, that’s probably half of why it’s hitting you so hard,” Alex says, suddenly calm and level-headed again. The wreck of a man has vanished, and Alex is sixteen and relatively unburdened, his shoulders lighter, his eyes less haunted. “Dying fast and young - I’ve always heard that makes for a bad transition. If you didn’t have time to cool your head, to make any kind of peace before dying, I can see why you ended up so messed up.”

“I’m messed up?” Jack shoots back. “I think I’m doing OK, honestly.”

“Tell that to the mirror,” Alex says, and Jack can feel his face flush hot. He didn’t know Alex had seen the remnants of his innocent mirror - or maybe he’d heard it break. That had been a particularly bad night, when he couldn’t bear to have any eyes on him, even his own. “I think _you_ need to talk to Jordan and Marissa,” Alex says, throwing his earlier words back at him. “Tell them how much you aren’t sleeping at night, and I guarantee they’ll break out the feelings arts and crafts.”

“Why, so my parents will have something to burn when I go home, in memory of my stint in foster care?” Jack is still feeling waspish, even if Alex is calm now.

Alex shrugs it off. “I’m sure they’ll be very proud of your macaroni art collage of your emotions.”

Jack’s fingers want to curl into fists at the easy scorn in Alex’s voice, but he reminds himself of exactly why Alex has this attitude, and shoves his hands in his pockets. “That’s all you know.” His mother hasn’t called in more than a week. He keeps trying to tell himself he’s happy not to have to try to make small talk with her.

“At least you still have parents,” Alex points out, somewhat coldly. “Must be nice to have a home to go to.”

“At least Jordan and Marissa want to keep you,” Jack shoots back. They’ve been through too much emotional ground in this conversation. He’s exhausted and on edge and doesn’t want Alex to get the last word, for once. “Must be nice, to be wanted somewhere.”

He stalks away, half of him very aware that he’s being a melodramatic teenager, the other half still quivering with anger that he doesn’t feel is entirely his own. It seeps through sometimes, from the past or his memories or wherever, and he doesn’t know what to do with it. He’s got to learn to keep his mouth shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have a belated emotional trash fire of reincarnated teenage angst and drama! It's been a day here, so my apologies if this is too pointed at all. These poor children are messes, with every right to be so. 
> 
> Thank you guys so, so much for continuing to read and for being so encouraging! It's honestly so helpful in making me want to keep writing, and more so, in giving me confidence to do so, because I am also an emotional trash fire of a human being. You guys make my life better every day that I get to do this. Yrs, endlessly tired of summer - Kivrin.


	8. eight

In mid-October, he and Alex have a visitor. Not a particularly exciting one, granted, but anything that’s a break from their normal routine feels like a major upset to Jack now. He likes the way things work at the Wallertons' home, and he’s coming to be very doubtful about anything that involves change. 

Phil, their visitor, shows up on a Saturday afternoon without any warning that he’s coming. They’re all in the stables when he arrives, grooming the horses. This much of equestrian life, Jack has found he can enjoy. Riding still makes him feel unsteady, liable to fall, but he doesn’t mind the work of caring for them. Brushing them, cleaning their hooves, leaning into the warmth of the large, gentle bodies - it’s soothing, and familiar in a way that he’s starting to recognize as being from his past. There’s a particular resonance to those memories, even the sense memories and the things his hands do without conscious thought. He’s currying Nancy when they’re interrupted, and he’s very glad she’s so gentle; the start he gives at the surprise appearance of someone new would have frightened a more flighty horse. 

“Ahh, here you are,” the man calls cheerfully. “I’m looking for the current foster placements? The Wallertons told me I could find you both here.”

“Who are you, and why are you looking for us?” Alex asks. Jack blinks - the hostility in his tone, the angle of his chin - he hasn’t seen this version of Alex since the first few days they’ve been with the Wallertons. He’d almost forgotten how angry Alex had been at first; now it’s all back, just barely beneath the surface. 

“I’m Phil,” he says, ignoring Alex’s hostile tone. He holds up an identity badge on a lanyard. “Phil Skyler. I’ve been assigned as the long-term case worker for both of you, actually; sorry it’s taken me so long to get out here. I’ve caught up with your files from your temporary workers, and from now on, I’ll be out every month to visit you, check in, see what kinds of progress are being made in your cases.”

“You mean work out when you can toss us out of here to make room for new placements?” Alex growls. He doesn’t sound like he has any doubts about the real motivations, but Phil shakes his head.

“Not at all. I’d rather keep you here until you’re ready to go home, actually.” He glances between them, and at Laf, who takes the hint and excuses himself back to the house. “I assume you’re - let me see - Alejandro Hernandes?” 

“Alex,” he grinds out. “Yeah, I’m Alex.”

“And - Jack Laurence?” Jack nods, feeling like he ought to raise his hand for attendance. “I’m pleased to meet both of you.”

Phil comes over to stand at an equal distance between them; Jack wonders whether to tell him he should move further away from Alex, who is holding his horse’s reins like he has plans to use it as an offensive weapon. Neither of them move to shake his hand or anything, but he doesn’t look particularly surprised. 

“I’ve been with the Second-Timer program for more than ten years now, and a licensed social worker for a lot longer before that,” he tells them. He seems friendly enough, but Jack knows he also has more power in this situation than either of them, and that’s always something to be suspicious of. (He’s started getting more wary ever since memories have been coming back with more regularity. Turns out that, once upon a time, he’d been in charge of something like a military battalion of spies. Those memories are currently making him a little twitchy - plus, he’s cueing off Alex right now, whose anxiety and irritation are through the roof.) “My job is to check in, see how I can help you to make progress towards your case goals, help you out in any way I can.”

“Case goals?” Alex puts out an imperious hand. “Let me see my file. I don’t even know what you’ve got down for my goals.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Phil says, and he’s not very apologetic. “I can tell you, though, that your primary case goal is permanency. That’s always the goal, in whatever form it may take. For you, given that your family of origin is out of the picture, we’re looking for either an adoptive situation or a home willing to provide permanency until you’re old enough to be independent. With supports, of course - we try not to let you just slip through the cracks as soon as you turn eighteen!” He smiles; it’s a little bureaucratic, but Jack wants to think that he means to be kind. 

“I don’t need to be adopted,” Alex says immediately. “I could probably be emancipated now, you know. I know how to look after myself. Then nobody would have to worry themselves following me around.”

Phil shakes his head. “That’s not the idea, Alex. You are going to need support with your memory retrievals and reintegration for several more years, and we want to keep you in touch with qualified individuals even after that.” He takes a seat on a bale of hay and gestures for both of the boys to join him; they do, after glancing at each other for moral support. They sit together on a long row of bales, room enough between them that Laf could easily have joined them, but he’s nowhere to be seen now. “So, with that in mind, what do you think of your current placement? Do you see the Wallertons as a potential long-term situation, should they be willing to provide it?”

Alex glares at his feet, but shrugs. “It’s better than anywhere else you’ve dumped me over the years. If they’re willing to let me stick around, I probably won’t take off again.” He kicks at the loose hay around their feet. “I think I could finish high school here, actually, and then I’d have a much better shot at college.” He won’t look at Phil, but Jack feels absurdly proud of him. He knows it’s not easy for Alex to admit he needs anyone; this is basically a declaration of love for the Wallertons, from him. 

Phil nods and makes some notes in a notebook he carries. 

“And are you receiving the help you need here for trauma, memory difficulties, sleep disturbances, all of that?”

“Yeah,” Alex admits. “They’re good. They’re - helping, actually.” 

“No fears for your safety or wellbeing here?”

“Not here,” Alex says, and there’s a sharpness in it that tells Jack too much about some of the other homes he’s been in. Phil just nods and makes more notes.

“Good. I’d say this looks like a promising placement for the near future, then, and we’ll see how it goes. We’ll speak to the Wallertons about their willingness to consider a longer-term placement at your six month review.” Alex nods; some of the anxiety bleeds away, and he relaxes, just a little.

“OK, then,” Phil says, flipping to a new page and glancing over his notes. “And - Jack, right?” He nods. His fingers are twisted together in his lap to the point of discomfort. “This is your first placement, from what I’ve seen. How are you doing here?”

“Fine,” Jack says. His stupid, ungrateful voice cracks on the word, and he sounds ridiculous. “It’s good, sir. They’ve been really nice.”

“Good to hear,” Phil says, with the official smile again as he makes notes. “Now, your primary case goal, of course, is family reunification once you’re more stable. Some people manage that within the first six months, and some take longer.”

“Oh,” is all Jack can think to say. He hadn’t actually known anything about case goals or six month reviews or any of it. 

“Are you making progress with your therapeutic work? Reintegration, memory retrieval, all of that?”

“I - yeah, I guess?” He knows he ought to sound more certain, but he feels like he’s hardly gotten started yet. He’d thought this placement with the Wallertons was going to be much longer. The idea of going home in a few more months, with all of his past still to learn and grapple with, and having to do it at home, with his parents, and in the school where nobody else is like him, and where rumors will surely have spread about his Second-Timer status - 

Alex shifts quietly, moving closer without drawing much attention to himself. Jack makes himself take a breath, use some of the grounding techniques they’ve been learning. He’s feeling a little shaky, all of a sudden.

“And have your parents been following the visitation schedule?”

“Sort of,” he says. His mom had remembered to call once last week, even if she hadn’t been able to talk long. Phil frowns at his notes.

“Doesn’t look like they’ve been participating in the educational modules we set up for them online,” he mutters, flipping through a few pages. “We do try to educate families, of course, so that they’re more prepared to help you when you go back home. I’ll have to follow up on that.”

That shouldn’t be a surprise, that they aren’t doing required education on reincarnation; he can’t imagine them ever doing that voluntarily. He just nods. Alex is glaring questioningly at the side of his face, but he can ignore that. 

Phil looks through his file a bit more. “I see that your initial problems were vivid flashbacks and sleeping difficulties. Both of those are improving, then?”

Jack shrugs, and Alex kicks him in the shin. 

“Ow!” He kicks Alex back. “What’s that for?”

“I know you’re not about to lie to the nice social worker,” Alex says, a bit dangerously. “Right, Jack?”

“Of course not!” He glares back at Alex. Why is he trying to interfere? “I’m doing better on both fronts, sir.” Alex looks like he wants to kick him again. 

“He really isn’t,” Alex says. “Don’t listen to anything he tells you, Phil. He’s got some weird pathological need to not cause people trouble.”

“No, I don’t!”

“Ok, my mistake,” Alex says easily. There’s a strange charm in it, and Jack almost finds himself going along. “You just toddle on back home, then, and see how they handle the nightly horror show, hmm? I’m sure they’ll be super supportive. After all, they almost talk to you once in a while and everything!”

Jack stares at him, not just surprised, but hurt. He’d thought they were friends. They’d grown closer in the past six weeks than he’d been with anyone for as long as he could remember, and to have Alex turn on him and spill all this to a stranger - it’s a betrayal he hadn’t seen coming. 

“Well, it sounds like you may still have some work to do here, Jack,” Phil says earnestly. “I understand you want to go home, but we need to be sure you’re ready, and that your parents are prepared to support you.” He stands, gathering his notes, and offers his hand to both of them. Jack shakes it; Alex doesn’t. “I’ll be back next month to check in, and in the meantime, if you need anything, here’s my number.” He hands them both business cards, and makes his way out of the stable. 

Jack doesn’t say anything. He just stares at Alex, letting himself cross his arms and raise his chin enough to make his sentiments clear. Alex doesn’t look at him, and goes back to his horse. 

“I keep telling you that you can’t be such a doormat.” Alex says, apparently to the horse. “If you don’t stand up for yourself, you’re going to get trampled.”

“Oh, is that what you call what you just did?” Jack is angry, now, because it’s not as painful as feeling the betrayal that still is coursing through him. “Telling him I’m a liar, making out that I can’t handle myself and my parents? How’s that supposed to help me?”

“Because you’re not ready to go back.” Alex sounds tired, and he still won’t look at Jack. “Surely you can see that? You’re not handling it, not yet, and if they just toss you back in with folks like yours, you’ll never learn to. You’ll just hide it and repress it until it blows up in your face.”

He’s not wrong about that, which is annoying. When he goes home, Jack knows that all the consolation of sharing experiences with others like himself will be gone. He won’t be able to talk, even in roundabout ways, about what he’s remembering and going through. His parents will never stand for it. 

A pang of loneliness shoots through him at the idea of leaving Alex and Laf and the Wallertons behind, and it’s echoed by the older, deeper melancholy that sometimes swims up from his past - the part of him that had written to someone for the consolation of their letters, that had wracked his soul with unbearable loneliness as he’d died alone, missing someone he couldn’t remember losing. His head starts buzzing again, and he drops it into his hands, suddenly so tired he can hardly stay seated. 

“Are you all right?” Alex asks after a minute, and Jack just nods. He has to accept that Alex was trying to help, in his inimitable way, just like he has to accept that there’s nothing he can do about his case. It’s not like anyone was asking him what his goals were, or what he wanted to do. He couldn’t have told them, anyway. “I should probably apologize, but I’m not going to.”

“Why am I unsurprised?” he manages, and his voice is almost ok. 

“I’ve seen it happen before, to other kids I knew,” Alex says. He’s defensive, but he really isn’t apologizing. “I don’t want to see you end up like that.”

It’s not at all what he expected, certainly not from Alex. He’s never seen Alex lift a finger to help anyone else. He’s not cruel or anything, but he’s very self-contained, as if he’s learned to keep to himself as much as possible. 

“You really were trying to help?” Jack asks. A little of the unbearable melancholy melts, and he manages to make himself look at Alex, who is brushing his horse with surprising gentleness. “You’re not looking to get rid of me or something - get me sent somewhere else?”

“You’re an idiot,” Alex says, without any heat. “Now, learn to speak up for yourself and I won’t have to do it for you. You don’t want to leave yet any more than I do, do you?”

“No,” Jack mutters. It feels like a betrayal, on his part, this time. Shouldn’t he want more than anything to go home, to get his life back to normal? 

But part of him has begun to hope, just a little, for something better than normal. The friendships he’s developing with Alex and Laf, the warmth and security he finds in Jordan and Marissa, the lingering wistfulness he won’t let himself think about too much that comes from somewhere deep in his past, singing of something better, something more, than what he left behind in his parents’ home -

He desperately doesn’t want to leave. Not yet. 

Hope is a brutal thing.

~~~~~

He gets back at Alex the next day - not in a mean way, but he feels like Alex should have a taste of his own medicine. They’re all gathered around the fireplace in the living room in the evening, for what nobody acknowledges but everyone knows is a group therapy session. They don’t need to make it formal for it to do the trick, and Jack knows Alex would get his back up if they called it what it is. Instead, Jordan has lit a fire in the grate, and they’re taking turns roasting marshmallows on sticks and making indoor s’mores. It’s way easier to talk about feelings and all that shit when you’re covered in chocolate and marshmallow and can set things on fire if you need to. 

“I have a question,” Jack announces, while Alex is roasting his marshmallow. “What does it mean if you can sort of, like, feel that bad memories are coming on? Even if you don’t know what they’re about, but you can make out that worse things are headed your way? Are there ways to deal with that?”

Alex turns and gives him the dirtiest look Jack has ever seen; Jack smiles back at him sweetly, all innocence. 

“That’s a hard one,” Marissa says. “I know what you mean, of course. I lost my first husband and all four of my children over the course of my life, and I always knew when the memories of those losses were approaching.” Jordan takes her hand, and she smiles at him, though there’s a bittersweet quality to it. “I wish I had perfect answers for you, sweetheart. What I can say is that if you’re able to research it, to know what’s coming, it’s less likely to blindside you as badly. When it takes you by surprise, that’s when it’s the most devastating.”

Jordan nods agreement. “It’s no different, really, from experiencing losses in this life - and don’t let anyone tell you it’s not real, or that your emotions aren’t valid. Every loss we suffered then we suffer again now, and no-one should downplay them. It’s the dark side of the lives we find ourselves living.” He sighs and shakes his head. “Sometimes you can see bad things coming and still not be able to do anything to stop them. The grief of that is the same as what you’re describing.”

“Like help that does not come, even when it was promised?” Laf asks. It’s darker and sadder than he usually allows himself to be, and Jack is pretty sure he isn’t imagining the wince Jordan gives. 

“Yes,” Jordan says evenly. He and Laf make eye contact, and Jack knows he’s missing the subtext, but they’re communicating something crucial. “Or the pain of not being able to help those you cared for.”

“That’s part of why we do what we do now,” Marissa puts in. Now it looks more like she’s offering Jordan comfort; Jack spares a moment to wonder at that, at how the two of them fit together so well, giving and taking without words. It’s nothing like his parents’ marriage, where neither of them can really stand one another anymore. “I think most of us who come back feel the urge to correct mistakes we made before, or to try to right wrongs. Some of them, we can’t. Some are just too big.” She and Jordan both look so guilty at that thought that Jack has to look away. He burns a marshmallow, then blows it out and eats the whole blackened thing. 

“Others, we can only hope we have a chance to make right this time around,” Jordan adds. 

“You said you were trying to find some of the people you’d lost,” Alex says, his voice less challenging than usual. “Do you mean your children?” Jack knows enough of what lies behind that question that he winces a little, on Alex’s behalf. It’s too raw, the quiet hope beneath his words.

“No,” Marissa tells him sadly. “I would be incredibly surprised to ever find any of them. They were so young, and had so little opportunity to leave their mark on the world. We may not know why some people reincarnate, but the young and quickly forgotten are so much less likely to come around again. It takes an exceptional strength of will and intensity for them to have lived hard enough or have been determined enough to make it through a second time.”

Alex’s face falls, and he turns back to the fire. He lets his next two marshmallows burn, and doesn’t do anything to stop them; they fall into the flames, and smoke rises up. 

“They were family to us, though,” Jordan tells him. “The people we’re looking for. A different sort of family. We were brought together by war, but I came to love them as my own sons. I failed them all, in different ways. I hope to be able to make it right this time around.”

“You are doing so,” Laf says quietly. “Do not doubt that.” There’s still a solemnity to him that Jack finds strange, but the discordant note between them from before fades into something more harmonious, and Jordan looks like he might cry. 

“We managed to find Laf, after many years of searching,” Marissa tells them, smiling at her son, eyes shining. “We remember him better than he does us, so far, but we’ve been given a gift in finding him again.”

“And when you find the others?” Jack asks softly, testing a theory he’s had for a while. Sure enough, both of them look directly at Alex, with hope written so plainly on their faces that it almost hurts to look at them. 

“It can take a long time for people to be sure,” Marissa says, but she’s smiling faintly. “We’re good at being patient. When the time is right, I think we’ll know what to do.” 

Hope, Jack reflects, may be brutal, but it is also indispensable. 

~~~~~

He gets to see something amazing one morning, when he and Alex and Laf are lingering over an unhurried weekend breakfast, trading friendly insults and ideas for what to do for Marissa’s upcoming birthday. 

Alex stops dead in the middle of a far-too-long sentence, rocking backwards as if he’s been hit in the face with a pie. He gasps in a long, deep breath, and Jack is shocked to see his eyes fill with sudden tears. 

“Alex?” he asks cautiously. Alex puts a hand up, a silent demand for patience, and shuts his eyes tight, like he’s arranging things inside his head.

“What is it?” Laf asks after a minute. He’s never really able to be much more patient than that. 

“I just remembered,” Alex says. He opens his eyes again, which still look dangerously close to tears, but he grins at them both. There’s something so genuine and sweet in it that Jack feels his heart clench in response, finds himself smiling helplessly back at Alex. “I remembered my daughter being born. My oldest girl.” He gives a little laugh, sounding for all the world like he can’t help himself, and Jack is certain this is what he sounded like the day she had been born, whoever he had been, then. “She was so strong, and had such a loud voice from the very beginning! I told Betsy we didn’t have a choice but to name her after Angelica.” Alex is almost glowing with the memory, and Jack feels like he should be passing around celebratory drinks or something. 

“Ahhh,” Laf says knowingly. “There is nothing like that moment - the first time you set eyes on them.” He sighs nostalgically, and Jack remembers that he, too, has a father’s memories. 

Sometimes their lives are so weird it almost hurts.

Sometimes, the casual brutality of what the world is doing to them is offensive in its callousness. 

But sometimes, the sheer gloriousness of the most brilliant moments of long-lost lives shines through them, and the world is made just a little brighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm feeling particularly philosophical tonight, as this chapter may indicate. Bet you guys didn't realize you were signing up for amateur philosopher hour when you clicked on this story! Mwahaha, my genius plan has worked, etc. 
> 
> My favorite book of all time has a theme that runs through it - "Hope is an anchor." I couldn't stop thinking about that in conjunction with this story, and with life more generally. Hope roots us in place, keeps us from drifting away; hope tethers us when perhaps we should move on; hope allows us the stability to keep trying, to anchor ourselves and begin to grow. Hope, I think, is the entire point of Eliza Hamilton. 
> 
> Anyway, enough waffling from me. I'm really thrilled you beautiful people are apparently still enjoying this whatever-it-is-becoming! Your comments today were so thoughtful and brilliant and touching and wonderful. They gave me a great deal of hope. Yrs - Kivrin.


	9. nine

“We need more hobbies,” Alex groans, one evening in late October. They’ve all done their homework, it’s raining too hard to go see the horses, and nobody wants to play board games. “I think we’re failing 21st Century Teenagers 101. Aren’t we supposed to be, I don’t know - partying or doing the social media stuff or something?”

“We are ruined for this century,” Laf says disconsolately, slumping on the couch next to Alex with a gusty sigh. “I find I would rather study tactics or learn to waltz again. How are we so bad at just existing?”

Marissa laughs at them, but it’s understanding and gentle. “Don’t worry, boys, it’s a phase. We all go through it. You’re growing boys, in the middle of your hardest years of regaining memories and trying to sort out who you are. Once you’ve settled in and found yourselves, it’ll be easier to exist in the world as it is now.”

“So it’s normal, to feel like we don’t quite fit?” Jack asks. He’s lying in front of the fireplace, staring into the flames as he tries to sort out the incursion of new memories the last few days have brought, but he turns to look at the others as he speaks. He’s getting the memories more and more frequently now, and they’re getting a little easier to handle. They’re mostly routine, everyday sorts of memories just now, but they still make him feel untethered, floating between one world and the other, not sure entirely where he belongs.

“That’s pretty normal even for people who aren’t reincarnated, sweetheart,” Marissa tells him. “It’s just a more pronounced part of your life. You boys have a more complicated path than most, but it doesn’t set you apart from the rest of humanity.”

It actually is comforting, to have the validation that she offers; Jack has spent too many years wondering why he can’t make himself fit into the world properly, why he’s not interested in the things he should be. To be able to blame it on the other person lurking in the back of his head actually makes him feel better.

“Hobbies,” Alex repeats. “Because if I get the urge to write another essay for fun, I’m going to go out of my mind. We need things to do.”

“Well, you can either try to find something modern to force yourself to get interested in, or you can pick up things from your past and try to relearn them,” Marissa says. “Sometimes, though, you’ll want to avoid the old hobbies. If I ever have to pick up an embroidery needle again, I’ll probably stab someone with it.” She wrinkles her nose. “Embroidery samplers were the bane of my existence as a child, the first time around.”

“Fine.” Alex sighs heavily. “Essays it is, then.” He opens his laptop and starts to type in a desultory fashion. “Only thing I was ever really good at, I’m pretty sure.”

“Nothing I was good at matters anymore,” Laf says, sounding almost sulky. “No-one cares for skills at military parades or presenting oneself to the King. I am skilled in languages and diplomacy and military tactics, and no-one has need of a fifteen year old with such skills from hundreds of years ago.”

“Or political negotiations, or creating new governments,” Alex agrees glumly. “Face it, Laf. We’re useless in this time.”

“But you won’t be forever,” Marissa assures them. She gets up and moves behind the couch, to where she can kiss first Laf, then Alex on the head. “Your skills then will translate to skills now that you can’t even imagine yet. You’re going to be very gifted young men, again, and I have no doubt that you’ll make a mark on the world this time around as well.” She smiles at all of them. “I’m going to go and get the Halloween decorations out of storage. Perhaps you can use your tactical brilliance to strategize the best ways to deploy them around the property for maximum effect.”

“Buzzkills,” Alex says gloomily, once she’s gone. “That’s what we are. Killjoys.”

“They just have the wrong sorts of fun, now,” Laf says, sounding like such a crotchety old man that Jack has to laugh.

“They don’t throw parties like they used to, that’s true,” he says, remembering the glowing scenes of entertainments past that are starting to come back to him. “Still, remember how uncomfortable the clothes could be? Especially when you had to dance all night.”

“Ugh. Dancing,” Alex grumbles, but he sits up a little straighter, and looks more energized. “I don’t miss that. Sometimes the most interesting people would show up, though, and I remember some very rewarding conversations facilitated by a little alcohol, a little music, maybe a name dropped in the right place.”

“It was good to be politically connected,” Laf agrees. Sometimes Jack can see it almost physically paining Laf that he can’t tell them openly who he had been, but Jordan and Marissa seem to have been firm with him on that one point. They’re worried about the possibility of interfering with Alex’s and his own memories returning, though Jack isn’t at all sure how that would even work. “Everything now seems so trivial. You know what I mean?”

“Yes!” Alex’s agreement is sudden and violent. “Why should I care about my grades in math or which teachers don’t like me? The things I’ve done - can you imagine caring about - about _sports_?” He sounds so scathing that Jack wants to laugh again, but he’s also not wrong. He barely has any memories back yet, but what he does have are so strong and powerful, they tend to eclipse day-to-day happenings in the present. He knows what it is to lead men into battle; he remembers keeping General Greene’s secrets, and getting messages smuggled into Charleston, even when it was occupied by the British. He remembers the constancy of waiting - for conflict, for British action, for orders, for letters.

Everything now moves so fast, he feels, and is of so little consequence.

But then Marissa comes back with three large tubs of Halloween decorations, half of them which look almost unused, and Laf digs in with enthusiasm, looking for pieces he remembers from previous years, and they wind up spending the next two hours planning out the decor to properly terrify visitors. Somehow, they all forget that they’re too old and tired and cynical to care about plastic spiders and light-up cobwebs. Alex decorates the top of Laf’s head with cobwebs, and Jack and Laf work together to force a pair of fake Frankenstein’s monster hands onto Alex’s hands, and they wind up making so much ruckus that Marissa eventually has to separate them and send them to bed. She acts like they can’t see her smirking at their antics.

~~~~~

That night, Jack dreams of stifling heat and endless waiting, of letters sent and received, and wakes up with a name on the tip of his tongue. He almost remembers, just for a second, his own name. He had heard it, maybe, or seen it in writing? For some reason, it is a detail he can never quite hold onto. Not that it probably matters much, but there’s a part of him that’s jealous of all of his odd new family, all of whom at least know who they had been.

He can’t go back to sleep. After half an hour of tossing and turning, he gives up and turns on the light. Somewhere in his head, there’s still a momentary surprise at electricity, at the convenience of light at the flick of a switch; he remembers fumbling with candles, burning his fingers too often to forget. After a moment of wrestling with himself, he gets out the sketches he’s been keeping and his quill and ink. It feels self-indulgent to study his own drawings, but they’re closer than any other means he has of reaching the past.

There’s an itch at the back of his head now. He almost knows something - something important. He lets himself doodle thoughtlessly with the quill, sketches and fragments of the old cursive that are coming back more easily all the time, a hand that would have delighted his English teacher a few months ago, trying to remember what he had been dreaming about. An envelope, he thinks. He can almost see the name on it, in a hand that isn’t his. Marissa has talked about automatic writing as a possible connection to information from the past - not as some sort of weird spiritualist practice, but as an ideomotor phenomenon - muscle memory, basically, letting his hands trace the patterns that had once been most common, that his hands knew well. It’s worth a try. Anything is worth a try, he thinks tiredly.

After a while, he looks down at the page, and can make out vague words here and there, like in the sketches he creates. Some are clearer than others, and there are a few that seem to be repeated a few times. There - that lazy flick of the quill has created two words that flowed so easily he must have written them thousands of times. He squints down at them, and doesn’t want to admit that Marissa is probably right about his needing glasses.

It’s a name - a signature. His signature, but not now. It’s a little too untidy to make out entirely, but he can definitely make out a J in the first name, and an L in the second.

At least I’ve got the proper initials, he thinks wryly.

The first name is short. It could still be Jack, maybe. The second name is too short to be Laurence, though. He squints at it again for a while before sighing and giving up. He’ll get it eventually, he’s sure. Everyone else knows their own name.

~~~~~

“Jack,” his mother says, the next time she bothers to show up for one of their scheduled visitations, “you are coming home for Thanksgiving, aren’t you? Your - oh, what’s his name? Felipe?”

“Phil?” he suggests. He doesn’t roll his eyes, even though he wants to.

“Right. Your social worker fellow,” she says, waving a hand. “He says we can make arrangements for you to travel home for the holidays if you want to come, and of course I said you would, but then we didn’t quite know where you were to book tickets.” She looks at Jack expectantly, and he doesn’t have a clue what to say.

He knows he’s supposed to say yes. He’s supposed to want to come home, isn’t he? He’d been taken away from home without his consent, after all, and of course his parents would want him home for Thanksgiving - but he’d never given it an instant of thought. He’d helped Marissa and Jordan make the list of dishes they’d be cooking, and had been excited to meet some of their former foster children who were coming, and was really looking forward to seeing who would set Alex off into a political rant about the evils of colonialism on the occasion of Thanksgiving.

He’s supposed to say yes. His parents always take him to their country club for Thanksgiving, where his grandparents all meet them, and his more distant family call to pass on holiday greetings. His mother dresses him in clothes to match his father’s, and she gets a picture of the three of them, every year.

He doesn’t want to say yes.

Jordan, who has been cheerfully puttering around the kitchen, stops what he’s doing to watch Jack. He probably thinks he’s being inconspicuous, but as it turns out, being a commander of spies in his other life has recently sharpened Jack’s senses.

“I don’t know if I should,” he mumbles to his mom. “I’m not really - you know. In control of all this - all this new stuff yet.”

“Don’t be stupid,” his mother says sharply. Jack can feel Jordan’s hackles go up at that; he’s a huge stickler for people using respectful language with one another, though he doesn’t care if they curse, in general. “How are we supposed to explain to your grandparents why you’re missing the family dinner?”

“Well, what have you told them I’m doing?” Jack frowns; it’s just occurred to him he hasn’t spent a single moment of thought on any of the rest of his family. It’s not like they see a lot of each other, but still.

“We haven’t mentioned it,” his mother says. She purses her mouth, like he’s referring to some indelicate condition. “Obviously, Jack. How could we tell them the truth about-“

“About me?” Jack says dully. “About what I am?”

“Don’t say it like that, dear,” she reprimands. How does she always make him feel about five years old? “Your father and I believe in you. We know you’re going to beat this thing, and then you can come home. And for now, we’ll bring you home for holidays, and no-one need ever know any of this happened!” She smiles at him, triumphant, and nods as if the conversation is over. “Now, where shall I book tickets from?”

“I don’t think,” he tries again. She ignores him.

“Phil said you’re in Virginia, right? Can you fly out of Dulles? Your - people, there-” she says the word like it’s an insult, “can drop you off, right? We can fly you out on Wednesday, I suppose.”

He looks up at Jordan, wanting to plead for help. He’s overreacting. He just needs to go home for a few days, play it cool, keep his memories under control, and then come back and get back to normal. A few days at home won’t kill him.

But he still looks to Jordan, hoping he’ll somehow be able to make the situation better, and Jordan is moving before he has a chance to say anything.

“Mrs. Laurence?” He’s behind Jack’s shoulder in an instant, leaning over to place himself in the frame of the camera. He smiles at her, and Jack’s mom blinks in surprise. “I’m Jordan Wallerton, Jack’s foster father. My wife and I sent you a letter a few weeks back, introducing ourselves.”

“Oh, yes,” she says. It doesn’t sound like it matters. “Yes, we were just discussing plans for Jack to come home for the holiday.”

Jordan frowns a little. “I’m not certain that’s a good idea, ma’am.”

“Oh, really?” She snaps the words dangerously, and Jack winces. It’s so embarrassing when she does this in public. “Well, Mr. Wallingham, don’t think I can’t see what’s going on. You’re not going to take my son away so easily! He’s coming home for the holidays, and that’s that.”

“Mom, I don’t think I want to,” Jack interjects, trying to shut her down before she really gets going. She glares at him through the screen.

“Hush, Jack. Let me talk to this man.” She focuses on Jordan again, narrowing her eyes and putting on her best ‘let-me-speak-to-your-manager' face. “Mr. Wallburton, I do appreciate the work you’re doing at this group home or whatever, but you need to remember your place. We are his parents, and we will determine what is best for him. You can’t keep him there when he wants to come home, not when his social worker has already said it’s approved.”

“But I don’t-“, he tries again. She keeps talking, and Jordan puts a comforting hand on his back; he can obviously see how stressed Jack is starting to feel. It’s the worst he’s felt in a while, and he can feel his head starting to buzz; she’s not listening. She never listens.

“I knew sending him so far away was a bad idea, whatever those intake people said!” She points accusingly at Jordan. “I see what you’re doing, you know. You’re trying to lure him away from us. Well, I’m not about to stand for it. What’s your supervisor's name?”

Jack’s head starts to seriously throb, and he drops it into his hands with a groan. The smell of burning rises in his nose again, and he can feel himself on the precipice of a drop into memory. It’s really sad if his brain is ready to run back into a war to get away from his mother, he thinks distantly.

“Jack?” Jordan says. He moves a hand to his shoulder, and Jack gives another groan. “Mrs. Laurence, I’m afraid we need to go. Can Jack call you back later?”

“No, I demand we finish this conversation now,” his mother says. “We’ve put up with this-”

Jack can hear as Jordan reaches out and shuts down the connection, then closes the laptop, without another word to her. He keeps a hand on Jack’s shoulder, grounding him.

“Easy, son,” he says calmly. “Keep breathing, nice and steady. Feel your surroundings. You’re on solid ground here.”

He shakes his head, feeling himself drift between one world and the other in a haze of memories that compete for his attention. “She’s scarier than the British, for sure,” he says after a minute, finding his way back to the Wallerton’s kitchen table. “I’d rather be arguing before the Assembly again any day, even knowing the project was doomed to failure from the outset.”

“The project?” Jordan asks, his voice gentle and his hand still solid and warm on Jack’s shoulder.

“I had only reason on my side,” Jack mutters, a trifle bitterly, and then shakes his head, picking it up from his hands. “I’m sorry - I don’t remember what I was talking about.”

“It’ll come,” Jordan says. Jack glances over his shoulder, and Jordan smiles at him. “Now, what do you want to do about the holidays? You, not your mother.”

“I want to stay here,” he admits. “I shouldn’t, I know, but I really want to be here. I don’t know how I’d do on an airplane, or in public places.” He gestures at himself, barely off the edge of a full blown flashback that had come on with no warning. “But she won’t hear that, and I don’t want her to make trouble for you and Marissa, after everything you’ve done.”

Jordan chuckles. “Don’t worry yourself about us, son. I’ve dealt with far worse.” He grabs his phone. “I can call your social worker and relay our concerns about your safety in traveling right now. I agree with you, by the way. I think you’re very right to be concerned, and I don’t think you’ll do yourself any good putting yourself in stressful situations, if they can be avoided. That’s often a trigger for major flashbacks, and mid-air isn’t a good place to be handling those.”

Given the way his head is still buzzing and throbbing, Jack can’t argue with that. He nods, and stares at the closed laptop as Jordan goes to his office to call Phil. His mother is going to be furious, he knows, and what’s worse is that he knows it won’t be because she misses him. He’s always been a pretty decent kid, and it’s not like he and his parents don’t love each other. It’s just that there’s never been any real connection between them - like he was never quite their real child, but some changeling switched at birth, and they had known it all along.

“You have got to quit being such a doormat,” Alex says, wandering through the kitchen on his way to the fridge for a third afternoon snack - and of course he’d been listening in, because Alex is always watching and listening to everything, he always has to know everything that’s going on because it’s the only way he feels safe. If Jack had cared enough about privacy, he could have taken the call in his bedroom; he doesn’t blame Alex. He doesn’t want to be called a doormat, though. “Don’t let her push you around like that.”

“I’m indebted to you for your sage advice,” he says, and rolls his eyes at Alex as he sticks approximately two dozen grapes in his mouth at once. “Tell me, oh great and wise one, how to avoid more of your wit in the future?”

“Hah,” Alex says around the mouthful of food. “A herculean task. I always have more wit and wisdom to offer, Mr. Laurence.” He gives a formal mock-bow, and Jack feels like he’s been struck by lightning.

“Not Laurence,” he says, his voice choked. He clutches his head again, which is suddenly splitting, and tries to hold on to the knowledge that wants to slip away again, like sand through his fingers. “I’m not-”

Not Laurence.

Laurens.

His name was John Laurens.

He sucks in a great lungful of air, trying to remember his grounding techniques, trying to hold on to his name. If he has to choose between one and the other, the present or the past, he’s holding onto his name.

For the first time, he doesn’t feel like he’s being taken over by some alien personality, or some ancient revenant that’s taken up residence in his head. He blinks, twisting his fingers in his curly hair to keep a grip on what he is, who he is, what’s happening. He is John Laurens of South Carolina. He’s waking up, after so long asleep. He sucks in another breath, and looks at Alex in wonder.

Alex is staring at him with no little amount of concern, poised in the doorway obviously ready to run and get Jordan if he’s needed. “Are you all right?” he asks quietly. “You don’t look so good.”

“I remembered,” John whispers. “I remember my name.”

He’s breathless and giddy and terrified, and he grins helplessly at Alex, swept up in wonder. He’s remembered things before, but this is different. It isn’t terrible or lonely or frightening. It’s a part of himself that he had lost, and suddenly it is back, and he is a little bit more whole and complete.

“Congratulations,” Alex says dryly. “I’ll bake you a cake.” He hesitates a moment, though, and smiles back. “It’s pretty cool, isn’t it? Just - don’t go looking yourself up. You don’t want to know. Trust me.” His smile twists to something more bitter, directed at himself, and for just a moment, John feels like he’s on the edge of something else - another revelation, but it’s got something to do with Alex -

“Well, that’s all sorted out,” Jordan says, striding back into the kitchen. The almost-knowledge slips away. “I let Phil Skyler know, and he’s going to sort things out with your folks. He admits he shouldn’t have agreed to anything without speaking to you first, so hopefully we won’t have a repeat of this again.” He looks between the boys. “What did I miss?”

“I remember my name,” John says again, and he can barely get the words out. There’s such wonder in it, this new piece of himself, and he’ll take the headaches and buzzing any day if it’s what it takes to put himself back together.

“Good,” Jordan says. He’s actually smiling, looking very pleased. “That’s a big step, young man! Now, where you go from here is your choice. Don’t let anyone pressure you to give your name until you’re ready. Right, Alex?” He gives Alex a stern side-eye.

“What, me? When have I ever been nosey or stepped outside the bounds of propriety?” Alex has laughter in his voice now, and that’s so good to hear, John smiles a little wider. He’s overwhelmed with affection for all of them right now - the Wallertons, and this house, and Laf’s infectious enthusiasm, and Jordan helping him deal with his mother, and Alex’s sly wit and weird sort of protectiveness.

He slips away to his room while Jordan is laughingly listing every occasion he knows of that fits the bill, and Alex is arguing back about every one of them, and pulls out the paper he’d been scribbling on a few nights before. Yes, he can make it out, now that he knows what he’d been writing - John Laurens. Taking his quill and ink, he lets himself write it out a few more times, grinning as he feels how naturally it flows from his hand.

He’ll have to face the big questions soon - whether to follow Laf’s lead in learning everything he can about his past, or to take Alex’s suggestion not to look any of it up. He’ll have to make decisions about who to tell, if anyone, and whether he’s going to try to compare notes on past events with the others, to see if they might have crossed paths in another world. It’s not a name he remembers from history books or anything, and he’s probably more relieved than disappointed by that, honestly; he doesn’t need to have been someone famous. Right now, he finally feels like he has proof that he was someone, that he’d been a person with a name and a life, someone who had truly lived, rather than simply someone who had died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the radio silence yesterday, my lambs. I was sad and could not write, which consequently made me sadder. I've made it up, I hope, by writing about the happiest chapter I could muster. Look, not even any emotional whiplash at the end! I hope you enjoy, and I hope to be back to my normal mania from here on. Love always - Kivrin.


	10. ten

When Marissa gets home, late that night, John wants to fling himself down the stairs and tell her what he’s learned, that he’s recovered a vital part of who he had been. He knows exactly how her face would light up, and she might even hug him, if she was as happy for him as he is for himself. Her hours that week have all been long and unusual, and she’s barely been home, working on some complicated case that she can’t tell them about yet. Even tonight, she’s barely in before midnight, after the boys are usually asleep. John can’t sleep, though, despite the exhaustion that seems to have crept into the very marrow of his bones, and slips out of his room as soon as he hears her pulling up to the house.

He creeps down the hall on bare feet, doing his best not to disturb Alex or Laf. They’ve all learned to respect one another’s sleep, given how hard it can be to come by. He slips down the stairs, already grinning in anticipation of sharing his news.

“-would not believe the sort of day it’s been,” Marissa is saying, her voice sounding as tired as John feels. He stops short. “I can’t believe we’re not making more progress.”

“I know,” Jordan agrees. They’re both in the living room, and it sounds like they’re sitting together on the couch. John considers for a moment. Maybe this isn’t the time to share, after all; both of his foster parents sound worn. “I’m starting to have my doubts that we’ll ever find them all, even with all that we’re doing. But at least we’ve got Alex.”

Now he’s torn again. He doesn’t believe in eavesdropping, but part of him is burning with curiosity - who else are they looking for, and do they know who Alex was? How did they figure that out, if Alex refuses to even acknowledge his own historical past? They obviously think they do recognize him, but what had given it away? Now that he knows his own name, he’s starting to wonder about others from his own past, and how he might ever recognize them - assuming there is anyone for him to find. He hesitates, hand hovering near the wall, ready to return to his room at a moment’s notice.

“Yes, thank god,” Marissa says, fond and grateful. “The time and tears we’ve spent on those boys.” She laughs a little, but it sounds close to tears. “And if we - or more precisely, if Alex doesn’t find him, I worry, Jordan. Alex has already been through so much, and he’s not exactly opening up to us.”

“Not yet,” Jordan says. “But he’s making progress, honestly. He’s telling jokes now, and letting the other boys get closer. He’s only been here two months. It’s always taken him time to warm up.” He laughs softly, and she echoes it.

“That’s true. I remember how long it took last time.”

“With me, yes. You didn’t see how he took to - ” Jordan sighs, as if the lightness has evaporated all at once. “We have to find him, Marissa. I’ll never forgive myself if we don’t.”

“I know,” she says. They’re silent for a long moment, and John turns to creep back up the stairs, feeling like a heel for having listened in on them.

“Oh,” Jordan says, a little more enthusiastic. “Jack made some real progress today! I won’t spoil his surprise - I think he’s dying to tell you tomorrow - but I think he’s starting to get the hang of things.”

“Oh, good,” she says, quietly pleased; John is very grateful to Jordan for not spilling the whole secret. “I want to see him on solid ground, that’s for sure. I think he’s hardly begun to deal with all of his past, whatever’s hiding there.”

And he’s not going to stand around and see if they discuss him any more; his ears are already burning. He sneaks silently back up the stairs, and sets his alarm to get himself up early enough the next morning to be sure to catch Marissa before school. It’s nice, though, knowing she wants a good outcome for him.

~~~~~

Laf gets drawn into the school play in November, entirely by accident. As it turns out, they’ve chosen a play with a substantial amount of French dialogue and influence, and neglected to cast students with any skill in French for the requisite parts, and Laf finds himself unofficial dialogue coach and cultural attache, as Alex styles him. Laf protests greatly at first, complaining about how much time he’s wasting; within a week, though, he’s invested in all of the drama, both on the stage and off, and John thinks he’s developed a crush on one of the other students, but he’s not about to go snooping.

It’s awkward at first, because he and Alex and Laf have learned to work together very well as a trio, and the missing third makes itself evident in the gaps and silences between them. Laf eats lunch with the drama kids now, and spends considerable amounts of time after school helping the tech crew and running lines with the cast, and they can’t begrudge him the obvious enjoyment he’s getting from it, but they miss him.

There is an upside to the situation, though John is reluctant to admit it even to himself because of how unlikely it seems. He and Alex have become friends.

They’ve been friendly to one another for a while now, that’s nothing new; they’ve even learned to appreciate one another’s decent qualities as they’ve shared a house over the past two months. This, though - this is something different. And he doesn’t know how or when it happens; it’s somewhere in the first week they spend abandoned by Laf, between the awkward pauses and the bus rides where they compare notes on homework and John accidentally dropping an entire cup of coffee on the ground as Alex looks on in horror, as though he’s witnessing the death of an innocent.

He’s only sure it’s happened when they’re eating lunch together in the cafeteria, still abandoned by Laf, still too new and reclusive to have joined anyone else’s table - just the two of them, over what is supposedly chicken stew, but which John suspects may be as old as either of them. He shares that observation with Alex, and then has to scoot his chair back fast as Alex explodes in laughter that threatens to cover both of them in half-eaten stew.

“Your manners are horrifying,” John says, though he’s smiling in response. It’s really actually impossible not to respond to Alex’s smile, he’s found, although it’s a rare enough sight that he hasn’t been able to test the response thoroughly.

“They hadn’t invented them yet when I was growing up,” Alex snickers. John’s jaw drops.

“You’re kidding, right? You do know there were manners in our time? Because I’m fairly certain I was force-fed etiquette instruction from birth, given what I know, and I barely know anything yet!”

“Of course I’m kidding,” Alex huffs. He pauses a moment. “I don’t think I grew up particularly well-mannered, though. Given the memories I have from formal events, I was always worried that I’d mess up and use the wrong utensils at dinner, or miss a formality at one of those awful balls and show my roots to the assembled worthies-” he shudders. “I’ll be as ill-mannered as I like this time around. No-one can stop me!”

“Lie,” John says, smirking as he points his spoon at Alex. “Think I haven’t seen you immediately straighten up and be proper as soon as Jordan or Marissa come into a room? You care what they think.”

Alex glares at him. “That doesn’t count. That’s not them making me, that’s me choosing to behave well. I wouldn't do it if they tried to make me.”

“But since they’re happy to let you be a troll, you’ll behave like an angel?”

Alex shrugs. “More or less. They respect me, so they’ve earned my respect.”

John is quiet for a minute. “So, they’re not like the other foster homes?”

“Nothing like,” Alex mutters. “You don’t have a clue, thank god. The Wallertons are just good, you know?”

“And they dote on you,” Jack points out. It’s not jealousy, it’s observation. “That always helps endear people to one.”

Alex rolls his eyes. “I’m pretty sure they’re just like this with everyone who walks through their door. Marissa would probably make up a guest bedroom for the mailman if he lingered too long at the letterbox.”

“So are you going to stay?” John asks. He stabs at a potato chunk in his stew, and then decides to leave it alone. It looks like it’s plotting against him. “I mean, Phil should be around to visit any time now, and I was just wondering what you’re going to tell him.”

“I’ll tell him he’ll have to drag me out at bayonet point to get me in another home,” Alex snaps, and then calms himself down. “Well, obviously I won’t tell him that - and you won’t repeat it either. I’ll just tell him I’m happy enough to stay another month.”

“What, just one month at a time, until you’re of age?” John asks. “You’re not going to actually tell them you want to stay, are you?”

Alex looks uncomfortable. “Once you tell them something like that, sometimes they get weird or scared off. It sounds needy.” He remembers Alex warning him against that in the very beginning, and wonders where it stems from. “Trust me. Just keep it light, don’t commit to more than a month at a time, and wave him off and forget about him.”

“Wish I had that option,” he says, knowing it sounds wistful, and Alex frowns.

“What, because he says he’s going to get you back to ‘Family Reunification’ within a year? Don’t count on it, Jack. They always say that, even when they already have figured out that your birth family are shit and will never work the program. You’re gonna be here as long as I am, unless something major changes back at home for you.” He crosses his arms and sits back, the knowing sage again, and very pleased with himself for his knowledge.

John pokes the potato again, not wanting to look at Alex. “Well, actually, I don’t think I am. My parents don’t want me to stay with the Wallertons. My mom says-” he pauses, unhappy even to remember what she’d promised at their last visitation. “She says she’s going to have them move me somewhere closer to home.”

“Oh shit,” Alex says. He blinks, and the mask of confident assurance slips a bit. “She wouldn’t really do that, would she?”

“I don’t know,” John says, hopelessness setting in. Saying it to Alex just made it feel real, and now he’s trying not to start imagining all the ways a new foster home could be bad. “She said they’re filing a complaint about the Wallertons. She’s decided they’re trying to keep me away from my family or something, even though I told her I was the one who didn’t feel ready to come home.” He looks at Alex properly. “Have you seen anything like that before? She’s not going to be able to force me into a different home, right?” He needs Alex to assure him that no, it’s not going to happen. But Alex’s face is sober, and his dark eyes are very worried.

“It’s possible,” he says carefully. “Depends on how far up the chain of command she goes with it. Phil won’t want you moved, but his boss might not want the fight.”

John nods, putting his spoon down carefully. He can’t let himself think too much about this, not here, or he’ll stress himself right into a flashback, and he really doesn’t want to do that in school again.

“You don’t want to go, do you?” Alex asks. It’s oddly tentative, as though he’s asking something more than the question on the surface. John shakes his head.

“No.” It’s hardly more than a whisper. He’s trying to keep himself contained.

“Then we’ll get them to fight back - Jordan and Marissa. They’ve been fostering for so long, they’ve got to have pull within the agency. They haven’t done anything for your mom to complain about!” Alex looks ready to charge into a fight himself. He grabs a pen and notebook and starts scribbling. “We can lodge a counter-complaint. Get the Wallertons to report on just how controlling and awful your mother is every time she bothers to actually talk to you. She’s not working her plan, and has your dad shown up even once? We can-”

“Alex,” John interrupts, tapping the top of his notebook to stem the furious tide of words. “I don’t want to cause them this much trouble - and besides, it’s not like I’ve even checked with them. Maybe they won’t want to - you know. Fight back.”

Alex stares at him. “You think they’re going to just let her disrupt the work you’re doing here, and haul you away to some shitty foster home where they’ll let her keep controlling you from a distance? Have you met the Wallertons?”

John squirms. He doesn’t want to have to point the obvious out to Alex. “But you don’t know that the next place would be bad, and-”

“Seven foster homes,” Alex says sharply. “That’s how many I’ve been through.” He taps the pen on the tabletop with a loud rap. “One. That’s how many I’ve been in that are decent. Your odds of finding another place like this one are really fucking low, Jack.”

“I know,” he admits quietly. “And I don’t want to leave, but it’s not like I’ve got any say in this. They make that clear from the start, don’t they?”

“But the Wallertons do,” Alex says insistently. “I’m gonna call Jordan right now and-”

“No!” John grabs his wrist as Alex reaches for his phone, and then lets go as Alex turns wild, shocked eyes on him. “Sorry, but - don’t, ok? Don’t bother him.”

“The sooner they can get things moving, the better,” Alex says, still looking at him with something like shock. He grabs his wrist with his other hand and rubs it gently, and John has to hope that he hasn’t accidentally bruised him or sprained his wrist or something. It would be just his luck, of course.

“They shouldn’t have to deal with this,” John says. He’s tired. He’s always tired, now. “Both of them have enough to deal with already. You’re the one who’s always saying not to seem needy, right? Don’t bother them, Alex.”

Alex manages to grimace at him with his entire body, somehow, which is impressive. “Bother? What the hell, Jack? They’re in this because they want to help us! You think they’re going to be bothered by making a few phonecalls to keep you here?”

John shrugs with one shoulder, and keeps his eyes on the table as he speaks. It looks like he has to spell it out, after all. “Look, Alex. It’s not like we’re talking about Laf, here, or - or you. It’s just me. I don’t think they’ll mind too much if I get moved along.”

“Of course they’re going to mind!” Alex rolls his eyes, like Jack is too stupid for words. “You think they’ll just pack you up and ship you along, like excess baggage?”

“Why not? It’s what my parents did.” He feels stupid, now, and sulky, and hadn’t meant to say anything like that, and his head is starting to ache warningly. He feels the texture of his jeans under his fingers, presses his toes hard against the floor. He doesn’t have time to slip back into the past right now, just because his stress levels are rising.

“So they’re shit parents. That’s not exactly news,” Alex says. He’s barely keeping his voice down, and is almost vibrating with annoyance. He’s still rubbing his wrist, too. “So were mine. That doesn’t mean Jordan and Marissa are. You can’t assume they’re going to ditch you just because your family did.”

His head throbs, and there’s a moment when he can’t quite remember which set of parents Alex is talking about - and it doesn’t really matter, actually, because apparently whatever lifetime you place him in, John Laurens is going to be a disappointment to all and sundry. He’s held off doing any research on that name yet, trying to figure out what it means for himself, but he’s pretty sure he’s boiled it down to the basics - disappointment, regret, shame. He kind of wants to throw his spoon at Alex, but he keeps his hands still.

“No,” he says carefully, holding back the unfamiliar anger that wants to roar through him. “I’m assuming they’re going to let me move on because I’m not you, or Laf. I’m not anyone they want - not like you two.”

“What the hell does that mean? What does it have to do with anything?” Alex looks genuinely bewildered, and John feels a little bad for him.

“You and Laf are people they knew in the past,” he says. It’s probably not his place to tell Alex this, and he knows how Alex avoids knowledge of his history, but he can’t figure out how to make him understand. “Remember, they told us they were looking for a few people?”

Alex still looks uncomprehending. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re so sure they’ll toss you to the curb.”

“Because I’m nothing special,” John says, annoyed now at having to spell all of it out. “You and Laf - you’re brilliant, and amazing, and you've got biographies written about you! I didn’t even manage to get myself killed properly, because I couldn’t even stay dead, and here I am again, as much a disappointment as I was last time!”

He pushes back a surge from the past - endless frustration at the idea that he’ll never make progress on his project, and the exhaustion of the war that will not end, and despair, because he’s too far away, and missing everything that matters, and he just wants to fight something - to throw himself against an enemy, regardless of the outcome, because he can take no more of the endless waiting -

The bell rings. Alex is staring at him, speechless for once, still holding his wrist like he’s been burned by John’s touch. John stands up and gathers his dishes; they’re out of time.

“Come on, time for class,” he says tiredly. As if it matters. He won’t be in this school another week, if his mother gets her way, and then he’ll never see the Wallertons or Laf or Alex again.

The memory of his heart, as he lay dying, rises up again to almost choke him as he takes care of his dishes and moves mechanically through the hallway; all he’d wanted then was one last chance to see a beloved face. _Alexander_ , he had thought, and had died without a chance to say a farewell.

He always did hate saying goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, come on, you know we couldn't have two happy chapters in a row! 
> 
> Thank you all, as always - and please know that I'm never writing like a maniac because I feel I have to or anything! I genuinely love writing, and hadn't been able to do any for years, for some reason, so it's an absolute joy to write and share this with you all. Plus, given this pandemic, you guys are pretty much my only human contacts outside my home these days, so - double points for maintaining sanity when I get to post and chat with you! Blessings on your fuzzy little heads. Yrs for ever - Kivrin


	11. eleven

By the time they make it home that afternoon, John has prepared himself for the worst possible news, and is ready to start packing as soon as he’s told he must. Talking about the potential move with Alex has made it real in his mind, a now ever-present threat he can’t shake. Alex is in a horrible temper with the entire world, for some reason, and is basically pretending he can’t see or hear John at all - which is fine, because John isn’t in a mood to talk.

They both get as far as the kitchen table and no farther. Alex slumps in a chair and glares at the floor as if it has mortally offended his honor, and John finds himself hovering at the back of another chair, torn between going to his room to start packing and waiting there to hear the news for sure. Jordan finds them there after about fifteen minutes of silence, and raises his eyebrows at them in surprise.

“I didn’t realize you two were home yet! I’ve never heard you so quiet after school.” Alex glares harder at the floor; John just nods, waiting for the word. Jordan watches both of them with concern for a moment, then takes a seat next to Alex, but at a comfortable distance. John continues to hover. “Well, I’m glad you’re both home. I’ve just gotten off the phone with Phil, and he should be here any minute for a quick check-in.”

John swallows hard, and nods. It’s what he expected. Alex’s glare shoots from the floor to John’s face. “Tell him.” Alex’s voice isn’t much more than a whisper, but it’s so quiet in the kitchen that none of them can miss it. John shakes his head. “Come on,” Alex says, and doesn’t say anything about doormats. For once, he’s not trying to be mean or bossy or coerce John into anything; he sounds concerned. John takes a deep breath, and looks at Jordan, who is watching him with concern.

“Did Phil say if - if he’s heard from my parents at all?” He manages to get the words out properly, somehow. It’s a minor miracle. Jordan frowns.

“He didn’t mention anything about it. Why?” Jordan looks from John to Alex and back again, his look of concern growing deeper. “What’s up, Jack?”

He hovers for another moment, then makes a choice, and sits down on the chair opposite Jordan’s. Alex shifts one of his feet forward until it rests on the rung of John’s chair. “My mother mentioned that she was going to talk to Phil about - about moving me into a different foster home. Somewhere closer to home, perhaps.”

Jordan blinks in surprise, and John hopes he hasn’t offended him badly. “I see. Is that something you want to do, Jack?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, biting his lip. He wants to say no, to tell Jordan just how badly he wants to stay with all of them, to remain in the bubble of safety that their home has become for him in the past two months. But Alex keeps reminding him not to be needy, and he knows very well that he’s not one of Jordan and Marissa’s keepers; he’s just another Second-Timer with a disappointing past and unpromising future, and what business does he have, trying to make them keep him around? If he moves to another home, then they’ll have a space to host another Second-Timer - maybe one of the ones they’re looking for.

Alex shoves his chair a little, and John can’t tell Jordan what he really wants, he can’t - but he makes himself shake his head. He doesn’t want to go.

“Jack, if you don’t want to be moved, you can tell Phil that,” Jordan says gently. “I know your mother was frustrated about the plans for Thanksgiving not working out, but that’s not really reason enough for them to move you if you don’t want to go. A disruption like that is usually not for the best, especially at an early stage of your memory recovery. Moving kids around too often is one of the worst things we do in this system, I’m afraid.” He looks at Alex for just a moment, with a terrible sadness in his eyes, and John nods slowly. Alex, who is still glaring at him, doesn’t look around.

“But I don’t mind,” John says, when he can make his voice work. “If it’s better for you and Marissa, I mean. My mom can be really demanding when she doesn’t get her way. I can just go -”

“Jack,” Jordan says, his voice deep and kind and authoritative. “I don’t want you to finish that sentence. Stick to your guns, young man. You said you didn’t want to leave - and we will have your back on that, as far as we are able.”

“Told you,” Alex mutters. His glare has faded a bit, but he’s still not looking at Jordan.

The doorbell rings, and they all jump a little. Jordan gets up, but hesitates a moment, looking between them. “I’m going to want to hear more about this later, gentlemen,” he says, and gives them both an almost-fond shake of the head as he goes to answer the door.

“Don’t even think about letting them move you,” Alex says, as soon as he’s gone. He scoots a little bit closer to John’s chair, staring at him with an almost dangerous intensity. “I’m serious. You tell Phil where you want to be, and you make him listen.”

Jordan leads Phil into the kitchen before John can come up with anything to say, and they both stand and greet him. Even Alex shakes hands, though he doesn’t look thrilled about it; Jordan leaves them to speak with their social worker in private.

He asks all the same questions as last time, checking to be sure that they’re still being looked after and helped with their traumas and everything. John lets Alex do most of the talking, and sticks to nodding his agreement.

“Very good,” Phil says, finishing his note-taking. “Alex, are you still happy to maintain this placement?”

“Yes,” Alex says. John blinks - it’s a far more direct and certain answer than he’d expected, from what Alex had told him at lunch. “The Wallertons are the best foster family I’ve seen. They’re helping us make actual progress. I don’t want to go anywhere else.” He looks pointedly at John, who keeps himself from rolling his eyes.

“And Jack,” Phil says, turning to his section of their files and looking through with quick, practiced glances over the pages. “Everything is still in order - oh, no, wait.” He pulls out a form and scans it over quickly. “No, I’d forgotten we got this complaint. Your mother -”

“I know,” John interrupts, as politely as he can. “She told me she was going to file a complaint.”

“Hmmm,” Phil says. “She alleges the Wallertons are trying to keep you from contact with your family. Suggests that you be moved. She says she’s concerned that your bond with your family is not being maintained.”

“She’s - they haven’t done anything wrong,” John says quickly. “They’re not trying to keep me from going home.”

Phil gives a dry little laugh. “It’s the very rare case I see that doesn’t include some sort of complaint against the foster family, whether justified or not. I’ll look into her complaint and get back to you about it the next week or so.” John’s heart gives a little gasp of relief, even though it’s nothing certain and solid - but at least Phil isn’t jumping to remove him today. He has more time here, at least. But Phil looks at the paperwork again, and frowns. “She does suggest that a placement closer to home would make things easier, and I have to say, she’s not wrong about that.” Alex kicks his chair again, quietly, and John takes the hint.

“I really don’t want to go anywhere else, if it can be avoided,” he tells Phil. “I like it here.”

“Noted,” Phil says, and indeed, he does make a note of it. “Well, as I said, I’ll look into it and see what we can work out. Anything else we need to cover before I go?”

They both shake their heads. John’s mouth is too dry to let him speak again. Maybe if he calls his mother, if he can actually get hold of her, there’s something he can say to change her mind. He’s got to consider how he might be able to fight the move from his end, because the little reprieve he’s been offered has given him an appetite for more. He’s not going anywhere without a fight, not if he can help it. Phil shakes their hands again and leaves, and they stay in their places at the table, both of them seemingly similarly drained.

“I hate this,” Alex says suddenly, breaking the silence. “I hate that we have no say in our own lives - where we go and whether we can stay. They make us so helpless.” He shakes his head, looking more tired than usual, and John completely understands the sentiment.

“At least he asked for our opinions?” John says, knowing it’s weak. Alex barely dignifies that with a grunt. “Thanks, though,” he says after a minute, and it’s awkward and awful, but he does mean it. “For, you know. Encouraging me to say something.”

“Can’t just sit here and watch you throw away your shot at keeping the best damn placement any of us could ever ask for,” Alex grumbles at his hands, not looking at John. “Don’t tell Jordan I said any of that, though.”

“So I can tell Marissa?” John asks, letting himself smile, letting the teasing tone in his voice ring out loud enough to pull Alex out of his mood a bit.

“Only if you want to find out what you look like with your eyebrows missing,” Alex says, grinning back, only a little dangerous.

“I’ll pass,” John decides. He finds enough energy to stand up, some of his weariness falling away as it hits home that he doesn’t have to start packing yet. “Come on, let’s disappear before Jordan comes back and wants all the details, and I accidentally tell him how much you love it here.”

~~~~~

He’s learned enough from the past few months that he doesn’t take calls from his mother in private anymore. It’s better, when there are others around, even if it’s sometimes embarrassing to let them see how dismissive she can be. At least he doesn’t have to worry about dropping into a flashback on his own if she pushes him too far, and Jordan and Marissa have gotten really good at hanging out at an appropriate distance, just placing themselves where they can be useful if needed and inconspicuous if not.

John manages to get hold of his mother after only two missed calls. They’re supposed to be talking every day, but that never quite seems to happen. Alex says he should move their communications into texting, if possible, so that he’ll have written evidence of anything she might say that could be useful in keeping him with the Wallertons, but Alex doesn’t know how bad his mother is at texting.

“Hi, mom,” he says awkwardly. Marissa sits at the far end of the living room, working on some papers from her massive file-folder, not obviously listening in. “How’s dad?”

“Oh, same as ever,” she says, as though that means anything. “He’s very disappointed about Thanksgiving, of course, and so am I. What are we going to tell your grandparents?”

“Tell them I’m on a camping trip?” John suggests. She scowls at him.

“Like they’d ever believe that, Jack. When is the last time you voluntarily went camping?”

He has a quick flash of memory - white canvas tent walls, flapping in a breeze that he can almost feel, threatening to blow out the candle he’s writing by. He hides a little smirk, because she won’t be amused if he says “two hundred and forty years or so” - even though he really wants to. Alex would be amused by the joke; his mother would be horrified, and it would put an end to any attempt to talk to her.

“Anyway, dear, I wanted to see if you’re going to be able to persuade those people to let you go for Christmas? I mean, hopefully we’ll have you much closer to home by that time, but if we don’t, I want to know what kinds of plans to make for the holidays.”

Well. That’s a whole load of unpleasantness to unpack all at once. He absolutely hates the idea of being in a different home, of course, but the idea of going back to his parents’ for the holidays isn’t much more appealing. His parents are kind of the worst at holidays, he’s coming to realize. There’s never a Christmas tree, for example, because his father can’t be bothered and his mother thinks they look trashy; neither of them can be persuaded to spend enough time in the kitchen to so much as bake pre-made cookie dough, and the extent of their holiday celebrations tends to be a few posed photographs, some extra drinks here and there, and an exchange of gift cards all around that always reveals just how little any of them care to know about one another.

On the other hand - he glances at Marissa, who raises an eyebrow at him, and makes a gesture that clearly says “we’ll follow your lead”.

“They’d never keep me here against my will,” he assures her. He has to be careful, tiptoeing around the bits of truth that he’s not willing to share with her, but he doesn’t like lying. “It was my discomfort with the idea of flying home so soon that made me say no about Thanksgiving. Maybe at Christmas things can be different?”

She looks a little mollified. “Well, good. I knew taking a firm hand with these people was the best way to show them we couldn’t be pushed around! I know they won’t try that sort of thing again.” He doesn’t let himself show any of the outrage he feels at that assessment, because he needs to be cool and calm right now. It’s difficult, though. An older part of him is suddenly screaming about the insult she’s offering to the Wallertons, and the necessity of defending their honor. Marissa is watching with a little smile, though, and he forces the bloodthirsty demands down.

“Traveling right around the holiday is so stressful, though,” he says carefully, allowing a look of worry to cross his face. “Maybe I could come just before or just after? I don’t want the stress to make me have a public flashback or anything.”

“Oh, good heavens, no!” She sounds as horrified as if he’s just suggested they all eat dinner stark naked on the roof. “Think of what the neighbors would say, Jack! We’re barely managing to keep the local gossips quiet about what’s become of you as it is. An - ugh, episode like that - no, it’s unthinkable.” She presses her lips together in a thin line. “No, if it will make it better, we can figure out different timing. I can tell your grandparents we need to meet up early because we’re going on a family cruise, maybe?”

“Sure,” John agrees. “I’ll talk to my - to the Wallertons about it.”

He’d almost slipped up badly, almost called them “my family.” If she ever heard anything like that, he knows she’d manage to chew Phil’s ear off until he had John out of there in a heartbeat.

She agrees breezily, and spends the rest of their phone time filling him in on the neighborhood gossip that he’s never managed to care about. When he lived at home, it was easier to ignore it all. He’s exhausted by the small-mindedness of it all by the time he says goodbye, and lets himself collapse face-first onto the table in front of the laptop.

Marissa gives an understanding sort of hum, and makes her way over to sit next to him in another chair. “I didn’t want to say anything while you were still on your call, but there’s a possibility we can work something out to everyone’s satisfaction this December.”

“Send her a life-size cardboard replica of me while I stay here?” John says hopefully, turning his head to look at Marissa, but not feeling strong enough to sit up again just yet. “I doubt she’d be able to tell the difference.”

“Good idea, but logistically problematic,” Marissa says, laughing a little. “No - I actually have some business in South Carolina that needs to be conducted in person for a few days. What if we drove down together, skipping all the stress and hassle of air travel, and I dropped you with them, and then I could pick you up on my way back?”

“What business?” John asks, and then mentally kicks himself. He shouldn’t be asking her such disrespectful questions - but she doesn’t look bothered.

“Some research on our missing persons,” she says, nodding toward her file folder. “We have reason to believe one of them might be in care somewhere in South Carolina, and there are a couple of foster homes I want to visit. There’s no guarantee he’s in any of them, but I have to check.” She sounds so wistful that John’s throat gets a bit thick.

“What’s he like - this missing person?” He doesn’t really know why he’s asking, except to pour more salt in his own wounds. Why does it matter what their lost person is like? He’s not going to be able to fill that gap for them, no matter how much he might want to.

“Oh, reckless and headstrong,” she says, smiling fondly. “Never would give up on any of his causes, even when he really ought to have, and we could never convince him to stop throwing himself headfirst into every danger that presented itself.”

“Sounds exciting,” John says politely. “Although with Alex and Laf already, aren’t you worried about your house burning down or some such?”

“I’d welcome the risk to have him back here safely,” Marissa says firmly. “He was a great favorite of Jordan’s, and I think he’s always felt a bit guilty that he couldn’t do more to prevent - well.” She sighs and shakes her head. “Anyway, there are a couple of candidates I want to meet, to see if he could be one of them. It’s tricky, this business. Not using our old names makes a great deal of sense for many reasons, but it makes it very hard to find people.”

“It sounds like a good plan to me.” John tells her, thinking through the whole plan. “I’m sure they won’t need me there for more than a few days. And - thank you. I really don’t want to fly yet!”

Marissa laughs and leans a little closer. “I have a theory that no-one can prove yet that we all tend to be extra suspicious of air travel if we’ve come from times before it was common. I can read all the statistics on air safety, but there’s still an eighteenth century voice in my head saying it’s all witchcraft and tomfoolery.”

“That makes a lot of sense,” John agrees, thinking about his own reluctance to fixate on electronic devices, as compared to his peers. Some part of him just isn’t fully comfortable with the little glowing boxes that seem to consume people, mind and soul, if they’re not careful.

They make plans for traveling the week before Christmas that pass muster with his parents, and John hopes it’ll give him a little more breathing room. His mother only mentions moving him once in their next visit.

And then there’s no more time for planning, because Thanksgiving week is upon them, and the whole household explodes into a festive furor that John did not see coming. It sweeps him up and swirls him around and leaves him breathless and joyful, almost in the way that remembering his name had done. School is out for the week, and Laf is back with them, if still somewhat distant with thoughts of his new interests, and there’s apparently enough cooking to do to feed an army.

(Somewhere, in the depths of his memory, John Laurens remembers the difficulties of feeding an army, especially when the land has been scavenged by the hungry British, and the farmers have no interest in selling their goods to anyone trying to pay with worthless paper scrip. It’s no joking matter. He remembers soldiers going hungry, and their promised rations arriving already spoiled in the South Carolina damp and heat.)

Jordan and Marissa put them all to work, and even Alex doesn’t complain about it. They cook for what feels like days on end, filling the freezer with pies and cheesecake, casseroles and cranberry sauce - anything that can be made ahead of time.

“How many people are you expecting?” Alex finally asks, looking in slight horror at the mountains of food they’ve already put away. He can get a little weird about food, sometimes, especially if he thinks it’s going to waste.

Jordan laughs. “We’ve given up trying to count. We do a Thanksgiving open house to welcome all of our friends and former foster kids, and a few of them will be coming to stay for a day or two. Speaking of which, I hate to put you guys out, but we’re wondering whether you boys would be willing to share a room for a night or two to make extra space?”

“Yes!” Laf says, delighted by the prospect. “We can all stay in my room! It will be like a - a -” he seems to hesitate, lost for words, and Jack thinks again of white canvas, and smiles a little.

“Like a camping trip,” he puts in, and Laf agrees vehemently.

“Fine,” Alex says, like he doesn’t care, which is proof positive that he loves the idea.

They wind up shoving Laf’s bed as far against one wall as it will go and covering most of the floor with their three sleeping bags. Alex tries to point out that Laf can, in fact, still sleep in his own bed, but he will hear nothing of it. It’s oddly comforting, companionable, to sleep in proximity to these friends, like something he almost remembers. Laf tries to tell spooky stories, but winds up being dreadful at it, and keeps changing the endings to make everyone happy. Alex actually tells a spooky story, and is so good at it that they wind up sitting up half the night, keeping each other awake through sheer terror. John has never done anything like this before, and he feels like he’s grinning himself to sleep every night, which probably looks really stupid - but hey, it’s dark.

Thanksgiving itself starts way too early with a dream that barely lets him out alive, and John goes downstairs to try to shake off the cobwebby remnants of memories that want to claw him back down into some dark past that he really doesn’t want to remember today. Even though it’s barely six, he finds Jordan already at work in the kitchen. He waves for John to sit down, and in five minutes there’s a steaming mug of hot chocolate in front of him.

“Thanks,” John whispers. Jordan smiles.

“You’ll need it today,” he says cheerfully. “It’s a wonderful day, but very exhausting. Feel free to check out any time if you need some quiet or privacy, ok? And don’t be afraid to come and find me or Marissa if you need anything at all, even if you think we’re busy.”

John thinks he’s probably blushing. “Sorry I’m so bad at dealing with these sorts of things,” he says quietly.

“Not at all. You’re doing just fine,” Jordan tells him. It’s more reassuring than it has any right to be. There’s probably a reason that his heart feels he should automatically trust and believe anything Jordan says, but honestly, trying to figure out whether that’s Jack Laurence or John Laurens at work sounds exhausting. For now, he nods and drinks his hot chocolate, and isn’t surprised when Alex shows up five minutes later, eyes looking as tired and haunted as John feels. Jordan has a mug already made for him, and Alex crashes in a chair, propping himself up with his elbows on the table.

“So, give us the lowdown,” Alex says after a minute. “Who do we actually have to be nice to, and who do we just have to avoid punching?”

“We’d prefer it if you didn’t punch anyone,” Jordan says, reasonably enough. “Everyone who’s coming is family - whether by blood, relationships in the past, or relationships in this life. It’s the one time every year when all the people we love are gathered here under one room.” He looks almost like he might cry, but it’s a good and healthy sort of tears. “Don’t worry too much about making impressions or anything, though. Everyone who’s a Second-Timer themselves has been through what you’re experiencing and won’t judge; anyone who isn’t doesn’t have the capacity to understand anyway, but I guarantee they’ll be good to you, for our sakes.”

“I think everyone should have to wear badges identifying themselves,” Alex tells his mug. “Red for Second-Timers, blue for normal folks. Something that gives us a clue before we accidentally insult someone who remembers us from last time or wind up flirting with our past grandparents.”

“I suggest you work on not insulting or flirting with anyone, then,” Jordan says, more than a hint of laughter in his voice. “And now, if you don’t want to meet our guests in your pajamas, I suggest you gentlemen go and get dressed. People will be arriving any minute!”

It’s the start of a long, blurry, exhausting day. It’s nobody’s fault but his own, and it’s not horrible or anything, but John finds himself feeling very absent, somehow. Part of it is that almost everyone seems to know each other already. It’s like a very intense family reunion, with past and present lives all tangled up together, and since everyone already knows everyone else, there’s no room for strangers. He finds a succession of quiet corners to linger in and watch the festivities.

Laf has no such hesitations, though, and is a whirlwind of joyous energy, flinging himself from one conversation to another, hugging and greeting and arguing with every person there, all with the widest smile on his face. It’s obvious he’s well-known and loved by the assembled guests, and amusingly enough, John hears him called at least six different names. He responds to all of them, so who knows which is his own - and then John has to spend a little while contemplating what he means by that, and whether he considers his own name to be Laurence or Laurens. He never comes to a satisfactory answer.

Jordan and Marissa are the perfect hosts, of course - who could expect anything else of them? They manage to be everywhere at once. Even Alex makes himself comfortable, finding a few people he’s content to debate with for hours at a time, with no evidence he’s previously known them. Alex likes to argue, sometimes, just to know he’s being heard.

The problem, he finally realizes, is that all of this makes sense.

Every person in the house is there because they fit in, like pieces of a puzzle that have been scattered. Jordan and Marissa have gathered them together and patched them up, tangling them all together in the webs of connection that he doesn’t have a hope of understanding. It’s warm and beautiful and solemn and joyful, all at once, watching them all come together and find their ways around one another, connections between past and future pulling them into something like a coherent whole.

And then there’s him, John - or should he still be Jack? The fact that he doesn’t know speaks to how very lost he still is. There’s John, sitting at the top of the stairs and watching them all spark and bounce off one another, growing closer together, finding their way in the world, none of them alone. There’s John, the Wallerton’s spare foster kid, trying to fend off memories of failure that ring in his ears.

“Who killed your puppy?” It’s Alex, who has somehow snuck up on him without John noticing at all, which says a lot about how little attention he’s paying.

“No, I’m just - just tired,” he says. That’s a useful excuse, partially on account of always being true. Alex snorts and nudges his leg with a knee, until John moves over and Alex crowds onto the step with him, shoulder to shoulder.

“I get that,” he says companionably. “My idiot past self was apparently a complete workaholic. My hands are twitching from this much unproductive social time.”

“Seems unfair to take his work issues out on you,” John observes.

Alex frowns at his hands. “I think it’s - or, it was, rather - a kind of defense mechanism. Like, if he was working all the time, he didn’t have time to think about things he didn’t want to deal with?” He doesn’t sound entirely certain.

“Like the bad thing you felt coming?” John asks. It’s odd to have such a quiet, private conversation a few feet over the heads of the chattering crowd, but it feels like the world has shrunk down to just himself and Alex for a moment. Alex nods.

“It’s getting closer.” He twists his fingers together, as if he can stop them from itching to work. “I know it is, but I can’t get a hint of the shape of it at all. Just this compulsion to work all the time, stay busy, not let my mind wander.” He laughs a little, sharp and dry. “Sometimes I really hate that asshole.”

“Your past self, you mean?” Alex nods, and John frowns. “Then - can I ask - do you think that’s still you, or is he a different person? I can’t work that out yet.”

“No, he’s me,” Alex says, but he doesn’t sound happy about it. “I mean, I’m him, and I remember being him, and I think by the time it’s done I’ll be more him than anything else.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

Alex shrugs. “Not as bad as some people have it, I guess. He wasn’t a murderer or a psychopath, at least. Most of the people he hurt or let down - well, he didn’t mean to do it. Not that it’s an excuse, but still.”

John nods slowly. He doesn’t know enough about John Laurens yet to know anything like that with certainty, but the weight of guilt he carries after two centuries isn’t a great sign. “I guess that would be about the worst. Better to be some nobody.”

Alex laughs again, still humorless. “I’d rather be a nobody. Give me a million people to choose from, and I never would have picked fucking Alexander Hamilton.” He sighs again and leans his head against the wall, like he’s barely realized he told John his name.

_Alexander Hamilton._

John nearly blacks out from the force of the memory that comes crashing back to him - writing a letter - _My dear Hamilton_ \- thinking of his missing friend with aching sadness, hoping for a letter in return - _Adieu my dear friend_ -

He buries his face in his hands and tries not to fall down the staircase as memories return, slotting back into place. _You know the unalterable sentiments of your affectionate Laurens._

He remembers - the face he’s been drawing, laughing and solemn and merry and tired, in a dozen different moods. _Alexander_.

Well, shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi kids! I'm not dead! Turns out I seriously underestimated the amount of work I had to do this weekend to get ready to start back to school with my children. (Five of 'em. Special needs. Pandemic. You get the picture.) Anyway, I survived that and the first day back, and now you get a nice long chapter. May not get to review replies in decent time tonight, but please know how very dearly I treasure every word you leave! <3
> 
> Thank you all so, so much. I can't ever really thank you enough. The love and support you keep showing for this frazzled soul is an absolute gift right now. I'm so grateful to everyone who takes the time to read this story! Yours, in semi-satisfied exhaustion - Kivrin.


	12. twelve

It’s absolute sheer good fortune, and nothing else, that keeps him from accidentally killing himself by a fall downstairs or, even worse, blurting everything out to Alex. Jack just manages to keep himself balanced on the step by swerving sickeningly to the side and almost collapsing against Alex, who grabs him by the shoulder and steadies him. 

“Whoa,” Alex says, startled. “What the hell?” 

He can’t pull his face out of his hands; his head feels like it’s going to explode, and the whole world is swimming around him. Alexander Hamilton - the name rings in his head like bells, a clarion call that is trying to pull him back into the past, to drown him under the weight of years of memories he doesn’t have yet, but that are weighing him down all the same. 

Jack Laurence honestly doesn’t know much about Alexander Hamilton, besides a vague notion that he was on the ten dollar bill and had maybe died in a famous duel. His history classes hadn’t been that great even before he became unable to care about school due to his life falling apart. But to John Laurens, or to the faded echo of Laurens that lives in his head, the name brings up a thousand associations and feelings, memories and wishful thoughts and flashes of intense sentiments that Jack can’t possibly put a name to. He knows - or had known - Hamilton as well as anyone in his life, and, sitting on the stairs, Jack knows without a doubt that Hamilton had been who he was thinking of when he died, the Alexander his heart has been singing for since it began to wake up. 

And somehow, the reincarnated Second-Timer version of Hamilton is sitting next to him, keeping him from falling, and Jack knows one thing with absolute certainty: he cannot let Alex know who he is. 

He doesn’t quite understand why that is yet, is barely managing any kind of coherent thought under the onslaught of memory and emotion that are tearing through him, but it is as certain as gravity, as certain as Alex’s presence at his side.

“Shit,” he manages to gasp out, grinding the heels of his hands against his eyes until flashes of light drown out the images that are overwhelming him. “Memory retrieval.” 

“Got it,” Alex says, and in a moment he’s on his feet, carefully pulling Jack up with him and hauling him up the last few stairs, steering him down the hallway and away from the noise and chaos of the party below them. They’re in Laf’s room in a moment, door closing behind them to cut off some of the sound, and Alex sets him down in the middle of their pile of sleeping bags and steps away. Jack barely manages to keep himself from lunging after him, suddenly anxious not to lose him again when he’s just found him - but he’s Jack and this is Alex, and he doesn’t know why he can’t bear the idea of letting on what he’s just figured out, but-

“You look like you’re about to be sick,” Alex says, sounding less uncomfortable than Jack would have expected. “Do you want me to get Jordan or Marissa?”

“No,” Jack says, flopping back into the pile of sleeping bags and keeping his hands over his face. He cannot look at Alex, not right this minute, even if Alex looks literally nothing like the pictures of Alexander that flash through his mind every time he even thinks the name. “Don’t interrupt them. I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh,” Alex says, sounding unconvinced. “What’d you get that hit that hard?”

“Not sure yet,” Jack lies. “It’s all kind of a muddle still.” Alex gives a hum of agreement, and Jack can tell he’s standing by the door. “You don’t have to stay,” he says, even though it makes part of him want to scream, because letting Alexander walk away has not always gone well and he doesn’t want him to go-

“Tell me if you want me to leave,” Alex shoots back. He doesn’t say anything, and Alex doesn’t leave. Jack lies still, trying to make all the memories settle in, trying to get them to make sense. He doesn’t remember Alexander - no memories yet of seeing him or being with him in person, but he remembers memories of him, if that makes any sense - remembers thinking of him, writing to him, dreaming of him-

Oh, shit. 

John Laurens had apparently had a great deal of affection for Alexander Hamilton. Jack’s breath hitches, trying to become a sob, because he can’t handle the sheer emotion that’s flowing through him. His eyes burn, even though they’re squeezed shut, and his hands are shaking. He’s not equipped to deal with this. 

“Do me a favor?” he says to Alex, his voice barely functioning. “Can you just - talk? About anything?” He needs something to serve as an anchor, to give him something to cling to as he struggles to stay afloat.

“Yeah,” Alex says. Jack hears him sit down in front of the door - feet away, too close and too far away, and he doesn’t look like Alexander or sound like Alexander, but what the hell does that matter? “So I’ve been researching colleges,” he says, with no preamble. “I know there are a few more years before I’ll be able to actually apply, but I wanted to get started on making my shortlist, and it’s actually remarkable how few universities in the US have decent programs -”

Jack stops listening to his words and just holds on to the sound of his voice, the cadence of rising and falling intonations, trying to stay tethered to the present, because he cannot deal with the entire ocean of John Laurens’ sentiments right now. He uses every grounding technique the Wallertons have taught them, focusing on his breathing and the sounds of Alex’s voice, until finally the roar begins to die down to a dull murmuring ache, and he can let go of his head without feeling like it’s going to fall off.

“...which is why the legislation has got to be passed, because until it’s codified on a federal level, we’re never going to- hey,” Alex breaks off the soothing litany when he sees Jack finally blinking his eyes open again. “Back with me now?”

I never should have left, Jack thinks - but no, that’s all John, one of the guilty laments that are starting to become clear, that ring through his memories like condemnation. He nods, and groans at the dagger of pain that shoots through his head at the movement. “I’m still here,” he says, his voice as croaky as if he’d been doing all the screaming he’s been feeling. “Thanks.”

“Don’t bother to thank me for something that basic,” Alex says, sounding supremely awkward. “It’s the least any of us can do for one another. We’ve all been there.” 

“I’m sorry for every one of us, then,” Jack croaks. “I would not have signed up for this if they’d advertised the downsides in advance.”

“Join the club,” Alex says. Jack makes himself look at him, almost afraid - but he’s still Alex, still skinny and tired-looking, eyes dark and thoughtful, sitting on the floor and watching him intently. “I wish it were that easy, you know? To be able to blame our past selves for having chosen to do this. At least then there’d be someone to take the fall for it.”

“Yeah.” And that’s something they have in common, because Jack is absolutely sure John Laurens never would have chosen this, either. Whoever or whatever is to blame, it isn’t him. “Don’t mention this to the Wallertons, will you? I don’t want them to feel bad that their party pushed me over the edge.” There - not quite a lie, because the stress of the gathering had definitely helped, but not the whole truth, because he absolutely cannot tell the whole truth. 

“No, we’d never want to tell anyone anything about what’s going on, would we?” Alex asks, as snarky as he’s ever been, even if his tone is gentler than usual. It’s his own brand of kindness, Jack has come to realize. 

“Shut up,” Jack says tiredly. “Like you’re so good at the whole sharing and caring thing.”

“At least I’ve already got my major malfunctions sorted out,” Alex protests. “You’ve barely gotten started.”

“I’ve got a lot fewer years to get through,” Jack counters. Alex winces at that, which is super weird and unlike him, but everything is super weird when your head is about to fall off, Jack reflects mournfully. “And at this rate I’m only going to make it to fifteen this time, because I’m pretty sure I’m going to die of this headache.”

“You won’t,” Alex assures him. “You’ll only want to. Big memory retrievals are always like that.”

“No way to shut them off?” Jack asks - and he’s not really hopeful, because surely if there were ways his parents would have found them and used them to get him back to normal, but he has to ask. Alex shakes his head.

“Some people try drugs or alcohol, but it doesn’t really help. Just makes this life fuzzier and unbalances everything even worse.”

“Great,” Jack says. He closes his eyes again, and a flash of a face hits him again - brilliant blue eyes - and he blinks his eyes open and stares at the ceiling. He’s not going to be sleeping again for a while, probably. 

~~~~~

He’s wrong, though. 

He sleeps like the dead that night, utterly worn out from the emotional storm, and wakes to find Alex staring at him from his own sleeping bag. It’s already morning, somehow. Alex has the grace to look away, embarrassed, when he’s been caught. 

Alex vanishes to visit the horses, and Jack wastes a bit of time wondering if he’s regretting letting his past name slip, or if he’s even realized he’s done it. Not that it matters - Alex isn’t about to let anyone know if he regrets it. He saves all his regrets and remonstrances for his past life - for Alexander Hamilton, which is still the weirdest thought Jack has had to deal with in a long time. 

He goes to the kitchen and sets to work helping Marissa, who is turning leftovers from the day before into even more amazing food. He’s coming to like cooking, actually, and he really likes spending time with her and Jordan, so it’s an added benefit. 

“You did great yesterday,” she tells him with a smile, and lets him take over working on a turkey soup. “I know it can be a lot, and I was really proud of how you handled yourself.”

He laughs hollowly. “You mean vanishing halfway through?”

“I mean taking care of yourself and listening to your own needs,” she corrects, with a fond shake of her head. “Don’t worry, Christmas won’t be anything like that big and challenging. We keep it fairly quiet around here.”

That sounds nice, after the overstimulation of the day before, and Jack lets himself look forward to it. He’ll still have to get through a visit home, first, but that’s not so bad. 

“Can I ask your opinion?” he says after a few minutes of companionable silence.

“Always,” she says firmly, and puts down her knife to listen to him with all of her attention. He squirms a little. 

“I’ve been thinking more about whether it’s a good idea to research my past,” he says, thinking through his words carefully. “I can see upsides and downsides, and I keep looking at Laf and Alex, because they couldn’t be more different. I’m pretty sure Laf has a schedule figured out of exactly when he’ll get which memories back, based on how much he knows about his past life, and Alex goes out of his way to avoid knowing more than he has to. I don’t know who’s right.”

“It’s really not a question of right or wrong, sweetheart,” she says thoughtfully. “And there is such a thing as a happy medium! Most people wind up trying to find out at least some of what they can, to be prepared for the big things that can otherwise blindside them. I can’t tell you which answer is right for you, I’m afraid.”

“And what about people who - well, people who weren’t important enough to make it into the history books?” Jack asks, feeling his ears turn red. “What if you go to look yourself up and there’s nothing there?”

“That happens more often than I’d like to admit,” she replies. “Especially for people who were marginalized or enslaved. We tend to have a bias towards ignoring that, within the reincarnate community, because the majority of us were fairly notable in our first lives. No-one knows why. Enough Second-Timers do come through with no traceable history, though, that it comes up in research studies and whatnot.” She gives a sigh. “For those people, there’s little they can do but weather the memories as they come and try their best to manage them. Most of them get through it, with support.” Jack nods, and she looks at him intently. “Do you expect that to be true in your case? You don’t think you’ll be in the historical record?”

“I don’t know,” he admits quietly. “I don’t think I accomplished anything of significance, so I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s not much to find.”

“Don’t let that be what stops you from looking,” she advises. “You never know. We are sometimes very bad at judging our own value and accomplishments. You may have had far more impact on the world than you think!”

It’s sweet of her, and he knows she believes it, but she doesn’t feel the weight of the guilt he carries with him from the past. How could he have died with that much undone, unaccomplished, unfinished, and have had any positive impact. No, that’s not his fear.

He’s afraid that if he researches John Laurens, he’s going to find exactly what caused the weight he carries. He’s perfectly alright with the idea of having been no-one special. What he can’t abide is the idea that he may have made the world worse, let down enough people that his presence in the world had been a net negative. Jack doesn’t think he could handle that knowledge - at least, not yet. He still feels raw and fragile after the memories of the day before, which are still sorting themselves out in his mind. 

And the memories which are falling into place have him even more convinced that he shouldn’t go researching anything in a hurry, because now he has something else he’s afraid to be wrong about.

Jack has to admit the truth that’s evident on the face of it, and has been since the moment he started waking up with John Laurens’ memories. John had loved Alexander. There’s absolutely no doubt about that, even if he’s not sure yet of the precise dimensions of that affection. 

But he’s horribly uncertain that it had been requited. 

He doesn’t know much about Alexander Hamilton, but Alex has mentioned a wife and children - a lot of children, if he recalls correctly. Also, it had been the late eighteenth century, and even Jack, with his lacking historical knowledge, knows that it hadn’t exactly been a great time for anyone with homosexual leanings, and - 

Basically, he cannot face the fact that he had apparently been madly in love with someone who had probably never considered him in the same life, because he can handle having died young, and he can handle not having left a meaningful legacy behind, and he can even probably handle whatever left him so guilt-ridden, eventually. He doesn’t know if he can handle the heartbreak of having been unloved by someone who had meant the entire world to him. 

~~~~~

November bleeds into December, and they drift through the last weeks of school before the winter break. No-one seems too stressed about whether they’re learning much in the last two weeks of school, which is a good thing, because Jack really could not care less about academics right now. He’s getting memories back faster now, at a pace that feels unsustainable, and between the emotional whiplash and the physical side effects, it’s very hard to give a shit about anything outside his head and the Wallertons house. 

On the 18th, with school finally having dragged itself over the finish line, he and Marissa pack for their trip to South Carolina. Literally no-one is happy about it. She hasn’t given Alex and Laf the specifics of what her business is around Charleston, and so Jack considers his own lips sealed on the matter; as a result, both Laf and Alex are somewhat sulky at the prospect of losing her for the better part of a week. Jordan, of course, knows the entire story, but Jack can tell that he’s disappointed, too, that they’ll miss the time together before Christmas. It can’t be helped, though. Jack’s parents are still making noises at Phil Skyler about having him moved, and he’s fairly certain that if he doesn’t go home to visit, he’s not going to be allowed to stay. 

And that idea is about enough to drive him mad, because he’s currently suffering from a very strange case of separation anxiety where Alex is concerned, although he’s doing his best to hide it from everyone. He’s come to hate every class they don’t share, and has taken to sitting up at night as late as Alex stays up, just to be with him. It’s not anything weird, he tells himself constantly. It makes sense that he wants to be around someone he remembers with such fondness - and even before he’d learned about their shared past, he’d been fond of Alex as he is now, and their friendship continues to grow deeper as they spend more time together. Which they’re doing a lot, as Jack is currently suffering from a tendency to act like the world’s most annoying leech. It’s a damn good thing Alex always has too much on his mind to take note of the fact that he’s always got a shadow these days. 

What he’s not going to do, Jack has decided, is allow his past attachment to Alex’s past self to mess up the friendship that he and Alex are developing now. There’s no need for it; it would be wildly inappropriate, and, if Jack is right in his analysis of their past dynamics, the awkwardness of his apparent infatuation with his friend, and oh god he can’t even think about it without blushing up to his ears and wanting to hide. But that’s John Laurens’ problem, and Jack isn’t going to let it mess him up. Alex is his friend, one of very few he’s ever had, and Jack is not about to risk that friendship for misplaced emotions that should have died with their owner centuries ago. 

“You really have to go?” Laf asks them that morning, as they’re getting ready to leave, and Marissa nods sadly. 

“I’m afraid so. But we’ll be back in plenty of time to fit in all the Christmas traditions, I promise! You and Alex and Jordan see to putting up the decorations, and we’ll be back before you have a chance to miss us.”

Alex snorts at that, and then looks like he’s shocked himself at the sound. Jack tries not to laugh at the look of honest bewilderment in Alex’s face at his own reaction. At least Jack’s not the only one with supreme awkwardness as his lame superpower. 

Marissa kisses Jordan goodbye, and hugs Laf and Alex until they start squirming to be let go, and to Jack’s shock, Jordan wraps his arms around him in an embrace that brings him to the very edge of tears. He barely escapes with his dignity intact. Now he has all of that to puzzle out, too. 

The car ride back to Charleston is long, but it’s nowhere near as bad as the journey there had been. He’s not feeling sick this time, and not heading into the absolute unknown with a fellow foster kid who looked half-ready to stab him if he thought it would do him any good. He’s very aware that his reluctance to go home is the worst sort of entitlement. He shouldn’t be this bothered by a few days of visiting with his own parents, who have never done anything to deserve that sort of attitude from their son. And even if there were reasons not to want to go home, it’s not like it’s a permanent move - not yet, anyway. But that’s what’s hanging over his head - the idea that sometime, before too very long, he will be headed home for good, and he’s not at all confident in his ability to handle it. 

He misses Alex - and Laf, of course, who couldn’t miss Laf? - by the time they’ve been gone for half an hour. It’s going to be a long few days. 

Marissa drops him off outside his house. He’s lived there his entire life, with the exception of the past two and a half months, but it looks strange and foreign from the outside, and he rings the doorbell and waits like a stranger. Marissa waits to be sure until they open the door for him, and then waves and blows him a kiss before she drives away. He has her number, of course, and she’s told him at least a dozen times not to hesitate to call or text if he needs anything, but Jack knows she has her own work to do. It’s only a little awful of him, he thinks, to hope she doesn’t find her missing kid. He’s selfish enough not to want to have to share, and cowardly enough to fear that he’ll be kicked out to make room once they find who they’re really looking for. He can’t think about that right now, though.

His mother hugs him when he gets home, even if she looks nervous and backs away quickly, and his father shakes his hand, like they haven’t gone months without contact. They tell him he’s grown, and he tells them he’s missed them, and then they’re all standing there in the front hallway, staring at the walls, with nothing to say. His parents don’t want to hear anything about his life with the Wallertons, Jack knows, and he doesn’t care even a little bit about the neighborhood gossip or the politics of their country club, and they’ve got nothing else to discuss, it seems. 

“Well,” his mother says after a while. “It’s so good to have you home. I’m sure you’re tired from that long trip.” She’s as easy to read as ever, and Jack nods. 

“Yeah, I’m pretty tired,” he agrees. 

“We’re meeting your grandparents for lunch tomorrow,” she informs him. “We have time to get you a haircut first.”

“No.” 

It’s the first time he’s ever contradicted her that openly, and both his parents gape at him. Jack squares his shoulders, deciding in an instant not to apologize or back down, for once. His hair had already been longer than they approved of before he’d left, and now it’s grown enough that he can pull it back in a ponytail. He likes it. He especially likes that it’s one physical trait he shares with Alex and Laf, now; it feels like a little link that binds them together. 

“Excuse me?” His mother sounds politely bewildered, like she might have misheard him. Jack lifts his chin a degree. 

“I like my hair like this. I don’t want to cut it.”

“You look like a hooligan, Jack,” his father says - not because he cares, but it’s easier to go along with his mom. 

“I don’t know what kind of standards of personal hygiene they hold to in these group homes,” his mother says, increasingly sour, “but you can’t go around looking like a charity case, dear.”

“I’m not cutting it,” he says. He’s not looking to start a fight, but he’s not backing down, either. He feels like Alex and Laf would be sticking up for him, if they were there. 

“We’ll discuss this in the morning,” his mother says, cutting him off at the roots. “I’m sure a good night’s sleep will improve your temper, dear.”

There’s anger, for a moment, that he can barely contain - the dismissal, the casual lack of concern for his opinions or choices. He’s decided that John Laurens, whatever else he may have been, was a man of great passions; the amount of time he’s spending these days trying to control outrageous emotions is a bit overwhelming. He fights back the knee-jerk anger and just nods, and goes to his room. What used to be his room. Nothing has been moved or changed at all, and yet he feels like he’s standing in a stranger’s room. He’s not sure whether the problem is that he’s gotten used to his room at the Wallertons’, or if he’s just a different person than he had been when he had lived here. Maybe both.

One thing he hasn’t forgotten is how the air vents of the room connect directly to the living room below, and how easily his parents’ voices float up through the circulation system. That hasn’t changed, at least.

“I told you this was a bad idea,” his father is saying, voice almost as clear as if he’d been in the room. “They can be dangerous, these people, when you cross them. He could have attacked us.”

“That’s hardly the problem,” his mother says, dismissing his father as easily as she does everyone else. “These Warbinghams are obviously far too permissive. Jack has never taken a tone like that with us before!”

“They always say these lunatics never come right again,” his father drones. He doesn’t sound like he particularly cares. “He’s not going to be safe to keep around, Karen.”

He misses them all - Laf with his quick smile and boundless energy, Jordan and Marissa, the pillars of strength and support he’d never known he needed, and Alex - 

Alex, who he misses like the absence of light in a dark place. It’s not a desperate lack, but a quiet and helpless sort of emptiness has opened up inside him, and he doesn’t think he can blame John Laurens for this one, even if he wants to. 

He wants to go home. 

He wants it even more when he wakes up screaming in the middle of the night, and there’s nothing to do but to lie in bed and try to keep quiet until the morning, and feel how alone he truly is now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys absolutely blow me away. The response to the last chapter was amazing - thank you so much! You're going to give me a horribly swollen head at this rate.
> 
> One small note - a bunch of you picked up on the significance of the Jack/John switch, and I just wanted to mention that I spend a great deal of time and thought on when he thinks of himself in each of those terms. It's significant, so well done you for picking up on it! Hopefully it makes some sort of sense as to why it changes back and forth, but I think it'll get clearer over time. Yours, with authorial pretensions - Kivrin.


	13. thirteen

Jack wastes an hour or two in the early morning poking through all his drawers and belongings, looking for anything he cares about enough to take back to Virginia with him when Marissa comes to get him. He’s only supposed to be there until the 22nd, and he wants to be ready to go as soon as Marissa is. Because he doesn’t want to slow her down, of course. That’s the only reason.

Most of the things he looks at might as well belong to a stranger, though. His tastes seem to have changed more than he’d realized in less than three months. He packs up a few hoodies and a couple of books he’s willing to bet Alex would enjoy; the rest of it doesn’t even feel like it’s his anymore.

He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror before he finally makes himself leave the room. He is not cutting his hair, no matter what his mother says; in preparation for that fight, though, he’s done his best to make himself presentable in every other way, so she won’t have anything else to criticize him on. It’s seeing his face in his own bedroom mirror that brings home to him how much he’s changed in a short time. His face is the same, for the most part, but even he can see a difference in his eyes and the way he holds himself. He looks older. He doesn’t look a bit like John Laurens - not the fragmentary memories of Laurens’ reflection, anyway - but he doesn’t quite look like the Jack Laurence who had lived in this room for his entire childhood. He’s something different, now, someone trapped in between two states of being. He doesn’t know exactly what he’s becoming.

He goes down to breakfast, because if he keeps thinking like that, he’s just going to wind up going back to bed and hiding until Marissa gets back for him.

“Good morning,” his mother says, pleasantly enough, from where she’s sitting in the living room with a cup of coffee. “Don’t spoil your appetite too much, dear.”

It’s honestly bizarre. It’s as if he’d never left at all, for all that she seems bothered; neither of his parents seem anxious to spend any amount of time with him, despite having insisted on this visit. He might have just been off at school for a day, for all it seems to have bothered them. Nothing in their home has changed as a result of his absence.

At least some things remain constant across his lifetimes, he thinks bitterly.

Over breakfast, he finds himself actually looking at his phone, which he never does back at home; there’s always someone to talk to, or some memory to be dealt with. Here, he’s alone with his thoughts, despite his mother’s presence in the next room. It’s all right, though, because he actually has messages for once. Marissa has been attempting to check in with him already this morning, and Alex and Laf both sent messages in the middle of the night (Jack knows the symptoms of historically-induced insomnia), and Jordan had emailed him an encouraging note and a collection of stupid memes about cows, for some reason. He grins at the phone, beginning to reply, already feeling slightly warmer.

They have another go-round about his hair, which Jack actually manages to win by channeling a tiny fraction of Alex’s stubbornness, Laf’s indifference about what other people think of his looks, and a dose of John Laurens’ temper, though he keeps it well under control. He doesn’t shout or even raise his voice at all, but he makes himself immovable, and eventually she gives up.

“We’ll tell your grandparents it’s just one of these experimental phases you kids go through,” she says, pretending she’s no longer bothered. His father huffs in annoyance, but says nothing. “Now, Jack, you should know that we’ve decided to tell your grandparents that you’re on an exchange program this year. Something about cultural sensitivity or some such. I’m sure you can think of something to say. It’s the best we could come up with to explain away your absence, and then we can just say the program was over as soon as you’re better!” She smiles triumphantly, and he can just hear the ranting that Alex would be doing if he were here. Jack just nods.

Lunch is more of a trial than he’d anticipated. He’d forgotten, somehow, in the easy warmth of the Wallertons’ home, just how formal and public meals with his family are. There’s a real concern at all times for appearances, of course, and he finds himself strangely confused as two different sets of formal manners want to overlap and battle for dominance. Half of him wants to use eighteenth century manners, and the other half is doing its very best to repress everything that wouldn’t be appropriate in a public setting. It’s a good thing he’s not really required to contribute much to the conversation. His stress levels are creeping up, though, like some invisible thermometer ticking its way upward until it reaches what he instinctively knows is going to be a big memory retrieval.

His mother makes a display of him for the next two days, as he creeps closer and closer to an explosion of memory that he can feel coming on and can do nothing to avert. She takes him on walks through the neighborhood so all the neighbors can see that there’s nothing wrong with him, and makes excuses to call on family friends and distant relatives, all to be sure everyone can see that nothing is wrong with her life. Jack smiles and shakes hands, nods and agrees, mouths pleasantries and makes small talk, and feels himself creeping ever closer to something big.

He wants to text Alex and apologize for ever being so clueless and insensitive about his explanations of these things, but he doesn’t want to remind Alex of his own looming dark cloud if there’s any way he may be escaping it. Alex and Laf keep texting back and forth with him, which is about the only thing that’s helping him maintain his sanity at all.

He’d expected his mother’s behavior, and that she would keep him at arm’s length while also showing him off to preserve her social status. He’d expected his father’s quiet disinterest, and the suspicion with which he watches Jack.

He hadn’t expected to be so lonely.

Jack doesn’t sleep more than a few hours at a stretch. His dreams are awful, he knows by the state in which he wakes up, but he can’t remember anything when he wakes, which is more frightening than he wants to acknowledge. It feels like something is waiting for him.

He makes it to the evening of the 21st before it all goes wrong. His parents have decided that they will all attend a concert together - not a holiday concert, per se, because that would be somewhat too popular for them, but a showcase of Tchaikovsky’s music that happens to be put on at the holidays when people are anxious to find ways to amuse visiting relatives. There’s a not-entirely-coincidental amount of The Nutcracker involved. His mother dresses them all in complimentary attire and makes sure they get their picture taken, and Jack knows her main goals for his visit home have all been accomplished.

He doesn’t much care about the music, but it’s his last night with them for now, and Marissa is coming for him in the morning, and then it’ll be fine to fall apart if he has to. He just has to get through one more night without snapping at his mother or convincing his father he’s certifiable, and then he can rest. He’s on his very best behavior all through the concert, ignoring the buzzing of his phone that tells him people are sending him messages (if he pulled out his phone at a concert, his mother would have his head), and already letting himself look forward to the drive back tomorrow, to seeing everyone again, to being able to breathe easily for the first time in days.

The orchestra strikes up the finale at last, and Jack breathes a sigh of relief. He’s so tired after the past few sleepless nights that keeping his eyes open is a struggle. He’s no great expert on Tchaikovsky, but even he can recognize the 1812 Overture without the help of the playbill. It’s well performed, but so very long, and he’s almost asleep despite the stirring music. Almost done, and then he can go back and say his goodbyes and go home in the morning-

Cannons roar in time with the music, and he starts to his feet, already looking for his sword.

He’s in position with his troops. They’ve snuck behind the redoubt, prepared to attack from the rear as soon as Hamilton and his men are in position, and his heart is in his throat. The moment is finally upon them, after weeks of fighting and digging and preparing, and Yorktown is going to be the end of it, finally, Alexander keeps assuring them all of it, and they will cover themselves in glory. But Hamilton’s men have been spotted, despite their silent approach, and the British are firing as they run toward the redoubt, heavy guns and hand grenades, and John leads his men forward - he’s never run so fast in his life. Washington has entrusted them with this mission - them, and the French, of course, and Alexander isn’t about to let them be shown up by anyone. He’s nearly up the back of the battlements now, and can see Alexander at the head of his forces, nearly flying over the walls in the front, and there are shots flying and men screaming, bayonets flashing in the flares of light from every canon shot, and the roar of the guns won’t stop, won’t stop, and he loses sight of Alexander in the mayhem -

When he comes to, he’s in the back of an ambulance for some reason. He blinks against the sudden harsh lights of the twenty-first century, still awash in blood and gunpowder, looking for Alexander, throat raw from shouting orders -

“Can you hear me?” The EMT who’s taking his pulse waves a hand before his eyes, and Jack shudders, flinches away from the motion, but manages to nod, even though he doesn’t know where Alexander has gone, and if he’s managed to get himself killed in glorious battle how is John meant to go on? “Can you tell me your name?” He laughs at that, staring up at the ceiling of the ambulance. The EMT looks concerned. “What year is it?”

“1781,” he says, his voice almost dreamy. Everything is at a distance, and he’s only gotten a piece of it so far, he can feel the rest waiting to slam into his brain as soon as he has a moment to let it, but there’s something he has to do.

“Oh, shit.” It’s another voice - the paramedic, probably, looking on from slightly farther away. “It’s a Second-Timer with a flashback, not a seizure.”

The EMT lets go of his wrist and pulls away, like he’s got a contagious disease. “His mother said-”

“I don’t care what she said, I know what I’m looking at,” the paramedic insists. “Get behind the wheel. We need the psych hospital.”

“No!” Jack struggles to sit up, even though it makes both of the medical personnel stare nervously at him. “I don’t need to go there!”

“Policy, sir,” the paramedic says. It’s not entirely kind. “Reincarnates suffering from major flashbacks are considered a danger to themselves and others. We’ll inform your parents and get their consent.”

“You can’t!” He sits up all the way. The EMT is already moving, headed for the front seat, and the paramedic is shutting the doors. “They can’t consent - I’m in foster care! I - you have to contact my guardians!”

“They can sort that out at the hospital,” the paramedic tells him. The engine starts, and the lurch forward as the ambulance starts to move is enough to knock him off balance, falling backward, and-

He’d been so tired - the guns had roared day and night for weeks, weakening the British defenses, and no-one had slept much, and Hamilton had been about out of his mind with excitement at finally getting a line command-

And then it had been over, and Washington had chosen John to help conduct the negotiations, and the world was turned upside down, the British marching away in defeat -

“I must return South, you understand,” he’d said, trying his best to sound certain. “You are not the only one with aspirations, my dear Hamilton.”

He isn’t going to see Alexander again. It’s not John that knows that, of course, but Jack does, because he has every memory from here on out, to the very nearby end of his life, and he’s not going to see Alexander again, and John doesn’t have a clue that he’s saying goodbye for the last time -

“...stop crying, kid,” the paramedic is saying, sounding annoyed. “You reincarnates make the worst patients. There’s nothing we can do for you.”

He’s in and out, flashing back and forth with such force that he can’t even try to use any of his grounding techniques. The ambulance fades into the interior of a tent, then roars back in a bustle of traffic, then vanishes again into diplomatic negotiations where he is going to ensure that the British march out under the same humiliating conditions they had faced in Charleston. He blinks back into the ambulance, and tries to hold himself there. He wants Alex, wants him to glare and snark at this paramedic until they let him out and let him go home. He wants Laf and Jordan and - Marissa!

His phone is still in his pocket, and it only takes a moment to dig it out and call her, crossing his fingers and hoping she’ll pick up.

“Jack? What’s up, sweetheart?”

“Flashbacks,” he says desperately. “I can’t stop! They’re taking me to some hospital-”

He’s back in the redoubt, fighting for his life in the moonlight, grinning wildly as he finally can throw himself back into the fight, heedless of danger to life and limb, shouting for the surrender of the commander of the British forces-

“Jack, listen to me,” Marissa says, calm and composed. “Deep breaths, remember? You’re not there now.”

“Right,” he says breathlessly, feeling as though he’s just fought the entire British army himself. “Can you come?”

“I’ll be there in no time,” she promises. “Can you give the phone to whoever is with you, Jack? I need them to tell me where to meet you.”

“Thanks,” he manages, handing off the phone as he flickers back into memories that swallow him up - battle and interminable waiting, and saying goodbye, not knowing it’s the end of everything -

He can’t stop himself from crying, even when they’re pulling him from the ambulance and taking him into a hospital where he doesn’t belong, and where is Marissa, and where is Alexander? He’s barely cognizant of the fact that he has a mother in this life, and that she’s going to be furious with him for this, because Alexander has to go to New York and John has to go back down South, has to try again with his emancipation project, but Jack already knows how that ends, how all of it ends, and he’s never going to see Alexander again.

But he remembers now - and how, how could he ever have forgotten the lines of Alexander’s smile and the way his mind worked, quicksilver and lightning, until all the rest of them look dull in comparison? How could he have forgotten any of it? Washington’s paternal leadership that John couldn’t help but view with utter reverence, and the surrender of Lord Cornwallis, and Alexander’s impossible joy at being given command of the engagement, and he and John had finally had a chance to fight side-by-side, and it was every bit as glorious as they had ever imagined.

Jack squeezes his eyes shut against the memories of blood and gore, the way the wounded men had screamed, and tries not to be sick.

”...may need sedation,” someone is saying, talking over his head, and where is Marissa? “We can’t have him getting violent. He’s been in and out for almost an hour already.”

He laughs again, desperate and awful, because they don’t know what they’re talking about. He’s been in and out for more than two hundred years, and it still doesn’t matter in the end, because he’s no closer to managing his life than he ever has been. Alex would tell him not to be a doormat, not to let them drug him. He pulls away from the hands that try to restrain him, and he has to find Alexander before he leaves, because there’s too much they’ve left unsaid and Alexander doesn’t know that John will be dead in less than a year-

There’s a sharp pinch on his upper arm, and a sensation of unwelcome warmth flowing through his arm. They’re sedating him, and Marissa hasn’t come, and Alexander has been dead for two centuries. He almost doesn’t care when the drugs dull his senses, dragging him down further. At least maybe this way he can find relief from the sharp and terrible ache that’s settled in his heart, knowing he’s seen the end.

Jack stops fighting and lets himself sink down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any medical inaccuracies. Historian and foster/adoptive parent here, not medical personnel. This chapter wasn't supposed to happen today because I knew I honestly didn't have time, but here we are. (My five year old graciously granted me permission to write you eleven words while rocking her to sleep post-seizure, but she's not that good at word counts yet, so we're good.)
> 
> Yorktown, you guys. These poor children. Who the hell thinks of reincarnation concepts that put kids through these sorts of traumatic memories? Yours, innocent of all such crimes - Kivrin.


	14. fourteen

Jack doesn’t know how long he’s out.

The first thing he does know when he begins to wake again is that he’s still alone. He’s in a room that’s so quiet he can hear his heart pounding in his ears, sounding like drums. They’d played drums on the march out of Yorktown, when Cornwallis’ army had straggled away in a bedraggled line. He’d let himself think, then, just for a moment, that it was over.

He’s going to have to read some of Laf’s books after all, because he can’t remember how much longer the war went on after that, and it suddenly matters in ways that Jack had never known it could. How long had it dragged on, in paltry skirmishes and clashes on river banks, after the war was already won? How much longer, after he’d already been dead?

He’ll have to borrow the books - if he gets back to Laf and the rest, that is.

They’ve taken his phone and all his other personal items, he realizes, as soon as he’s in enough control of his heavy limbs to check his pockets. It feels like intense physical labor to make himself look around, taking stock of the room. It’s not the white padded room he’d been half afraid to see, but it’s not much better, either. It’s a fairly small hospital room, and the door is closed, the lights outside half dimmed, which makes him think it’s probably still evening.

He winces as his head throbs in pain, and his memory tries to drag him back again, to the fields of Yorktown as they had watched the parley for surrender begin, but he manages to fight it off. He has to stay focused and in the present. He’s not safe right now.

Jack gradually pulls himself upright and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, then makes himself get to his feet, unsteady though they feel. It’s not far to the door - fifteen steps, maybe - but it feels as long as the quiet trek to the back of the redoubt had, last night-

No. Two hundred years ago, and a little more.

If he ever gets back to the Wallertons, he’s going to work so much harder on therapy. He doesn’t have the skills he needs to survive this, yet, as is clearly evidenced by his winding up in a mental hospital. He hopes Marissa is coming.

He’s so tired by the time he makes it to the door that it’s almost a relief to find it locked. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he could open it, anyway. He can look out, though, and his impression of it being late at night seems to be confirmed by the quiet emptiness of the corridor outside. A few more painfully staggered steps take him to the window, which looks out over a parking lot a few floors down. It’s still pitch-black out, but there are too many lights for him to make out any stars in the sky.

Jack hesitates for a minute. He wants to go back to bed - to just lie down and rest, conserve his strength, ride this out by keeping his head down and out of trouble. He has to force back a watery sort of smile as he can immediately hear Alex’s scornful words about doormats spring into his head at the idea.

He wants to see Alex so badly, it physically hurts, like his scar used to ache and burn.

“Marissa is coming,” he says out loud, to reassure himself. “She said she was coming, and she will.”

_Then get up_ , the older part of him demands, not terribly patient. _Do you want her to find you lying around?_

“I’m not having multiple personalities,” Jack warns himself. Therapy, as much as it takes, until he can reconcile his past and present, because he’s not interested in being bossed around by his own previously dead counterpart. He amuses himself for a moment imagining how confused and offended John Laurens might have been by the idea of therapy, and then reflects that he very likely could have used it as much as Jack, given some of the aspects of the man’s psyche he’s coming to understand. His own psyche, perhaps - but he’s entirely too worn out (and still slightly drugged) to go through all of that right now.

He gets up and makes himself walk the length of the room, pacing back and forth from door to window as he gradually begins to feel a little more himself. It’s easier to keep himself tethered to the present when he’s focusing on his actions. There’s nothing at all he can do about Yorktown or Alexander Hamilton, anyway, especially not just now. There’s something close to franticness burning in his mind, a sense of being trapped that he can hardly handle, and he doesn’t know which part of him is to blame, but he has to keep it at bay for now.

It’s a very odd sensation, trying to work out what is Jack and what is John, but for some reason, he feels more entirely Jack Laurence than he has in months. He can still access the memories he’s recalled, but they’re distant, like they belong to someone else. He would have thought that sounded like a good thing, not so long ago, but now it’s a bit like having a limb fall asleep and not being able to feel it properly.

On his sixth or seventh lap around the little room, Jack suddenly begins to hear noise from outside his door, and interrupts his planned exercise to press his face against the glass in the door, looking for the source. He could almost die of relief when he sees Marissa striding down the hallway, talking quietly but intently to the man at her side, who Jack doesn’t recognize. He makes himself back away from the door to give it room to open, and clutches his hands tightly together to keep himself from grabbing at her the moment she comes in.

“Jack!”

It turns out he needn’t have bothered, because Marissa has grabbed him in a fierce, frantic hug before he can even blink, and it’s all he can do not to break down and cry. He grabs the front of her coat with hands that would rather be broken than let go, and feels a little of the fear bleeding away as she squeezes him tight, already talking at full speed.

“I’m so sorry it took me so long, sweetheart. They wouldn’t tell me where you were until I got Phil to contact them and explain the legalities of the situation.” She presses a kiss against his forehead and lets go, putting her hands on his shoulders and studying him with an intensity he hadn’t quite expected from Marissa. “Are you all right, Jack?”

He nods, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. “I’m better, now. I’m out of the flashbacks, and I’ve sort of got it under control.”

“It’s all right not to be better yet, remember,” she says, her voice warm and reassuring. “You don’t have to be fine. Whatever you’re working through, we’ll help you, and you’ll get to fine eventually.” She darts a dangerous looking glare at the man who had accompanied her, who is standing awkwardly outside the door. “I’m told they gave you a sedative.”

Jack shudders reflexively and nods, and Marissa’s expression goes a little darker. She puts an arm around his shoulders, drawing him close, and turns on the man by the door.

“I’m going to need to have a word with your medical staff,” she says. There’s no hesitation in it. “And your legal staff, I believe. From the reports I’ve been given so far, I assure you this hospital will be facing legal complaints. By what authority did your people sedate a child who posed no danger to himself or anyone else?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know all the details,” he protests, looking rather bug-eyed. “I have nothing to do with those decisions, Mrs. Wallerton. I’m just the social worker on duty tonight.”

“Fine,” she says. “Well, we’re going to wait right here while you go and find whoever you need to in order to get my questions answered, and also to get Jack discharged right away.” She turns away, clearly dismissing him, and the man is off like a shot without another word.

“I know,” Jack says, finding it in him to be amused despite the situation, despite the bone-deep exhaustion and fear that are pulling him down, “you were a general in your past life, weren’t you?”

“Even better,” she says, turning to him with a genuine smile, all the danger gone out of it. “I was a general’s wife. All of the same power to command obedience with much less red tape to contend with.” She looks him over again and shakes her head. “You look so tired. Come on, have a seat.”

In a moment they’re in the two not very comfortable chairs the hospital has provided, and Marissa is watching him carefully. He’s finally made himself let go of Marissa’s coat, though it was a massive effort of will to do so. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

He shakes his head, looking at the door; thankfully, it’s still open. “Not here. I don’t know if it would trigger more flashbacks, and I can’t let that happen again, not here.”

“No, you’re right,” Marissa agrees. “It’ll be far easier getting you out of here quickly if they can’t claim you’re a danger to yourself. Stay with me as best you can, and once we’re out of here, you can let yourself remember as much as you need to.”

He nods, and grips the arms of his chair, giving himself something to physically hang on to. “What time is it? They took my phone,” he tells her.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll make sure they give it back.” Her tone leaves no room for doubt. “It’s almost three in the morning. I’m afraid I ruined Phil’s sleep schedule tonight, but I wasn’t about to wait for normal business hours!” She leans forward, as if she’s missed him as much as he’s missed her, and puts a hand on top of his. “I promise, I got here as quickly as I could. I’m sorry I wasn’t here in time to stop them.”

“It’s OK,” he says, and it isn’t, but it’s a lot closer to OK now that Marissa is here, now that he knows for certain that he hasn’t been abandoned to rot here. “Whatever they gave me helped with the flashbacks, at least.”

“Probably not,” she says, shaking her head. “Medications don’t generally have good impacts on memory retrievals. It probably pushed everything back down, that’s all, which means it’ll come roaring back at you in due time, but we’ll be there to help when it does.”

That assurance nearly knocks him over. To be fair, though, as tired as he’s feeling, a butterfly could probably knock him over. He nods, hoping she can read the gratitude in his face that he can’t put into words.

“Do you know if my parents-” he starts, and then can’t figure out how to finish that sentence. Marissa grimaces.

“They aren’t here,” she says carefully. “I understand they were very concerned by the flashback experience.”

He can work out what she’s not saying. They’d been concerned, all right - but not about him, or they’d be here trying to do what Marissa is doing. He’s probably caused them enough social shame that his mother will wind up with one of her nervous headaches for a week. Jack does love them, he does; he’s been raised properly. Right now, though, he’s actually grateful they’re nowhere to be seen. He doesn’t have the energy right now to try to smooth things over, or the patience to watch while his mother mistreats every member of the hospital staff over imagined failings.

“Can we-” he stops, gathering courage from some reservoir he doesn’t think he’s always had, and tries again. “Can we go home? Please?”

“No-one is going to stop us,” she promises. “As soon as we’re out of here, we’re going straight home. I had to talk Jordan out of jumping in the car and driving down here himself, and I think the only reason he hasn’t done it is because he had to hide the keys from Alex and Laf to keep them from trying it themselves.”

Jack blinks at her. “They know about what happened?”

She laughs, just a little. “I was a little frantic when they wouldn’t tell me where you were. I called Jordan right away, of course, and by the time we got hold of Phil, the other boys had all the details out of him.” Marissa rolls her eyes fondly. “I don’t know how that man ever managed to keep military secrets, once upon a time. He says they’ve been impossible since we left, pestering about when you’re coming home.”

“Blame Alex, not Jordan. He’s really good at getting people to talk,” Jack points out. His heart is so full at the moment that he can’t keep himself from grinning a little, even as he slouches a bit lower in the chair, gradually succumbing to the demands of gravity. The idea that any of them might have missed him, too, hadn’t occurred to him at all.

“Jordan says he’s a bit of a mess,” Marissa says. She’s watching him too closely, and he wonders just how much she’s seeing in his face. “He’s very concerned for you, and Jordan is concerned for him.”

“Alex told me once that they put him in one of these hospitals when he started remembering everything,” Jack tells her quietly. He hopes he’s not breaking a confidence, but the context may help Jordan to help Alex. “He said they kept him there for six months.”

“That makes sense, then,” Marissa says sadly. “It would help so much if they’d give us medical records or histories with each placement, you know.”

He nods. The dizziness from the sedative has worn off, but he’s so tired, due to lack of sleep and the exhaustion of enduring intense flashbacks. His head feels heavy, and his eyes are struggling to remain open.

“You can rest, sweetheart,” Marissa says. She’s looking at him fondly. At some point, when he gets all of this sorted out and has some free time to ruminate, he’s going to have to consider what all of it means, that she came back for him, that Jordan would have come, too. “I won’t leave, I promise - not until we can get out of here together.”

It doesn’t feel like giving up to let himself rest while she’s here, somehow. The John Laurens part of him approves strategically of resting while someone else has his back; the Jack Laurence part just wants to go home. He won’t get back in the bed, but he curls up in the chair and lets himself doze, knowing that Marissa won’t let anyone touch him again.

When he wakes up again, Marissa is standing outside the closed door, giving a spirited lecture to several other people. He can’t hear the words through the door, but he can hear the tone, and he would almost feel sorry for them, if he hadn’t been through a particularly bad few hours at their hands. He wakes himself up properly when he hears her dismissing them, and is getting up when she comes in, carrying a clear plastic bag with his belongings in it and a sheaf of papers in her other hand. She smiles at him, triumphant, and he thinks again that she reminds him of a general - one who has just won a victory.

“We’re out of here!” Marissa crows, and hands him the bag. “Discharge papers, followup recommendations, and a list of names and numbers for me to track down and hold accountable once we get home. Ready to get on the road?” Jack nods fervently and almost knocks himself over; Marissa grabs his arm and steadies him. “Carefully! The combination of everything you’ve been through is going to leave you unsteady for a bit, I’m afraid.”

He feels like he’s been unsteady for a very long time already.

With Marissa’s help, he’s in the car and headed home in a quarter of an hour, and she’s ranting passionately about all the ways medical personnel had messed up that evening as she gets them on the road back home, back to Jordan and Laf and Alex. Jack can’t entirely keep his eyes from leaking, but for once, he’s not even bothered about it. Marissa isn’t about to judge him.

“Oh! Do we have to check in with my parents or anything before we go home?” Jack remembers to ask after a while. Marissa goes very quiet, and drums her fingers on the steering wheel, and his heart sinks a little more. “What is it?”

“They were pretty disturbed by witnessing your flashback,” she tells him quietly. “Phil’s been talking to them, trying to make them understand, but I don’t think they really get reincarnation at all. They’re not comfortable being in contact at the moment, sweetheart.”

“Oh,” Jack says. That’s not really a surprise, of course; it had been obvious how much denial his mother was in about the entire situation, and his father had barely been able to speak a civil word to him since he’d learned Jack was a Second-Timer, but it still stings. It’s one thing for him to secretly feel like he fits in better with the Wallertons, and to wish to be back with his peers, his friends; it’s entirely another for his parents to have once again rejected him. This time, it’s likely to be more permanent. He can imagine what his flashback looked and sounded like, in a public arena. His mother won’t soon forgive him for that.

“Give them some time,” Marissa says sympathetically. “Some people just take a little longer to process things. I’m sure that after a few days, they’ll be ready to start figuring out how to move forward.”

“I doubt it,” Jack says. He’s not particularly bitter or angry, or particularly anything. He mostly just feels numb. They ride in silence for a while.

Jack looks at the time, and is surprised to see it’s after seven. The sky is beginning to lighten in the east, pinks and greys creeping up into the black of the sky. He glances at Marissa, hoping she’s not too tired to drive safely after being up all night trying to help him, and is not surprised to see that she looks weary and sad.

“I’m sorry to have called you away early,” he says quietly. “Did you have any luck finding who you were looking for?”

Marissa sighs. “I’m afraid not. None of the kids I met were anything like him, or had any of the right memories.” She looks forward bleakly, eyes distant. “It’s ok. It was always a long shot. We don’t even know if he’s anywhere to be found, after all.” Jack can tell by her tone that it’s not ok, but he’s not going to call her out on it. “And don’t you dare apologize!” She blinks back into focus, darting him a stern, kind smile. “I would have been furious if you hadn’t called me. Thank god I was able to get hold of Phil and get everything sorted out.”

“I know it wasn’t the plan, though,” Jack admits, uncomfortable with the thought that he’s caused them problems, yet again. He’s an awful lot of work and stress for the Wallertons, he knows, and it’s not fair to Marissa for his issues to have taken away from her opportunity to search for her missing person.

“Anyone who makes a plan and expects the world to conform to it is a bit of a fool,” she says, smiling a little. She reaches over to ruffle his hair, then sets her hand on his cheek for a moment. “Jack, I want to make sure you understand something clearly here, because I’m not sure that you do. You are the priority in this situation. Your well-being is the first imperative, and I am so upset that I wasn’t there to help when you really needed it.” She darts another quick glance at him, catching his eyes meaningfully. “We miscalculated. We never should have left you with them for an unsupervised visit at this stage, and that’s on us - Phil and Jordan and me. I’m just sorry that you’re suffering as a result of it.”

“I’m not suffering,” Jack protests - mostly because he isn’t able to handle any of the rest of what she’s said right now. She hums a little, clearly unconvinced, and pushes his hair back from his face before removing her hand. He feels the loss of that contact keenly, and has to remind himself that he’s not a child, that he can’t get away with whimpering for her not to let go of him.

Her phone rings, and Marissa drops her gaze to it for a second, then smiles.

“It’s the boys! I told them they absolutely weren’t to call before seven. Can you go ahead and answer it for me?”

It’s Jordan’s number coming up, and Jack is delighted to see that he’s calling with video. It’s only been a few days, but he’s missed them all so much in just that short amount of time. It’s so good to see their faces, even if they all look about as rough as he feels. Laf’s hair is sticking up around his face in a fuzzy halo, and Alex’s eyes are dark and bruised-looking, the way they get when he hasn’t slept. Jordan is exuding stress even from hundreds of miles away, but he gives such a sigh of relief at seeing Jack that he can almost feel the tension bleeding away.

“Oh my god, she found you!” Laf says, leaping towards the camera in delight. “They didn’t lock you away after all!”

Alex nudges him hard in the ribs, and Laf gives a squawk of protest, which Alex ignores. “Are you all right?” he demands fiercely. “What did they give you? What did they do?”

“Calm down, son,” Jordan says, and Alex shoots him a glare, but doesn’t correct him, for once. Jack takes that as a particularly moving testament to his concern. “Jack, how are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” he tells them. Nobody looks particularly convinced, and he knows he looks like shit, but he means it. “It’s been a rough few hours, but I’m fine. Marissa picked me up and we’re heading home.”

“So we don’t have to come and break you out?” Laf looks a little disappointed. “We had a plan and everything.”

Jack laughs, but Alex and Laf look deadly serious, and Jordan heaves a sigh of relief that doesn’t really seem exaggerated. Maybe they actually did have a plan. That’s a little worrisome, to be honest, especially since Alex looks like he might actually have been planning to stab people if the situation required it. “No, Marissa already did that. I just had really spectacularly bad timing and then handled my flashbacks poorly. It’s my own fault.”

“It most certainly is not,” Jordan corrects him. “It’s never something to blame yourself for. The world is not always an understanding place for people like us, and I wish I could tell you this sort of thing would never happen again, but I can’t promise that. What I can promise, though, is that you’ll always have backup when you need it.”

“And I’m teaching you how to break out of those places as soon as you get back here,” Alex mutters. “They can throw us in there, but they can’t keep us.”

“Let me see Marissa a minute?” Jordan requests, and Jack turns the phone to her. “Are you good to drive, hon?”

“I’m well caffeinated and so very motivated to get home,” she says, sounding entirely self-assured. “We’re stopping as little as possible. We’ve got a lot of Christmas preparations to catch up on, after all!”

There’s a mad rustling noise from the other end of the phone, and Jordan laughs. “I think the boys just realized they’d better clean up some of the disaster they made of the decorations before you get home!”

They say goodbye, and Jack puts the phone down, feeling closer to whole than he has in a while. There’s a warmth that’s been building in him since Marissa reached him, and he’s finally able to start letting himself relax.

“They really were going to come and break you out,” she tells him, grinning. “Jordan found them making plans ten minutes after they’d heard.”

He shakes his head, not quite able to believe any of it. “I didn’t mean to be such a bother.”

She shakes her head, staring at the road with slightly narrowed eyes. “Jack, I hope you won’t take it wrong if I tell you I’m not a great fan of your parents. You seem to be laboring under the apprehension that children are never supposed to be seen or heard, basically. You are not a bother, and even if any of this had been your fault, it still wouldn’t have been too much trouble for me to come and get you.”

He can’t address the remark about his parents, not with how numb he still feels any time he thinks about them, and he doesn’t think she wants him to argue with her about the rest. He isn’t ready to think too much about any of it right now, not when he’s still so tired and feels like he’s balancing on the edge of a cliff. The memories that had overwhelmed him the night before are just waiting, poised at the edge of his mind, and he’s blurry on the details right now, but he knows the scope of what he felt. Jack is afraid he’s going to continue to be a bother for a while, as he works to get himself sorted out properly.

The sun finally peeks over the horizon, sending golden shafts of light spilling through the winter morning, and Jack lets himself relax into the reality that Marissa is taking him home, and everything is going to be something more like OK, at least for a while.

He dozes on and off most of the way home. Once, he wakes up to find Marissa talking quietly but intently on her phone; it doesn’t take much listening in to tell that she’s talking to Phil.

“His mother falsified medical information, for god’s sake. She not only withheld information about his reincarnate status, she also told them he had a history of seizures. They could have seriously mismanaged his case - even more than they did, I mean.” She’s quiet for a minute. “Oh no, Phil, don’t try to extend the benefit of the doubt. Karen Laurence deliberately endangered her son for the sake of being able to pretend he wasn’t a Second-Timer. Both of his parents - they’re so prejudiced against reincarnates that they were willing to risk his health and safety.”

Phil says something on the other end for a few breaths of time, and Jack makes sure to lie still and not let on that he’s eavesdropping. Not like he can avoid it, really, but Marissa doesn’t need to know that he knows what she’s said.

Marissa gives a sigh. “I don’t know what to expect, Phil. They’ll either come around and start working their program or they won’t. Either way, you know you need to have an alternate plan in place, in case reunification is a no-go.” Another pause. “No, I don’t know if we can. I’ll speak to Jordan, but I’m not sure.”

He falls asleep again, wondering what exactly an alternate plan means, and whether it’s something he gets any say in. He’d better take Alex up on the offer of jailbreaking lessons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't quite decide if I want to BE Marissa, or if I want her as a mom myself. Either way would be good. 
> 
> Holy cow, you guys, first week of school is in the bag! Hopefully I'll find a little more writing time as we settle into the new routine, because I still need my theraputic writing sessions. I honestly have no idea how long this story is going to be; every chapter winds up covering only a small bit of what I had outlined, and then it keeps going off in directions I didn't quite see coming, and then I realize they were absolutely the right ways all along. This fic is my unruly, headstrong child, after Ordo Amoris, which was a perfectly behaved and obedient angel. I love them both equally, of course. :D
> 
> Love to you all, and thanks and thanks and ever thanks for your kindness and support and general awesomeness. - Kivrin.


	15. fifteen

“Jack,” Marissa calls quietly, waking him up from a dream that he forgets immediately, though the lingering sadness of it stays with him. “We’re almost home. I thought you might want to wake up before we get there.”

Jack pushes himself upright, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and pushing his hair back out of his face. They’re only a few minutes away from the Wallertons’ house, and his heart pounds a happy staccato beat at the thought of finally being home.

“I’m afraid we left everything behind at your parents’ place,” Marissa says. “We can see if they’ll send along the things you left, or else Jordan or I can take you shopping to replace them.”

“I don’t care about any of it,” Jack tells her honestly. “I just want to go home.”

She smiles, though it looks a little hesitant. “Almost there now, sweetheart.”

They’re barely in sight of the house before Jack sees the front door burst open and a figure run out; even at a distance, he can tell it’s Laf. He can’t stop himself from grinning. The struggles of the past few days fade a little more into the distance, especially as the familiar shape of the Wallertons’ home comes more clearly into view. He feels secure, all of a sudden.

“Oh, it’s good to be home,” Marissa groans, putting the car in park and stretching. “How about we don’t do that again any time soon?”

“Sounds good to me,” Jack agrees. “Thank you again for coming to get me. I don’t know what I would have done on my own.”

She shakes her head, smiling at him fondly. “You’re fifteen. You’re not meant to have to handle things like that on your own at all, yet.” Laf is staring at them impatiently, obviously too torn between greeting Marissa or Jack first to actually make a move, and Marissa chuckles a little. “Come on - poor Laf looks like he’s about to explode.”

They both climb out, and Jack stumbles a little. He’s stiffer and more tired than he would have imagined possible, especially after the amount of sleep he’d managed on the drive home, but Marissa had warned that he might have a particularly rough time of it for a few days after what he’d been through.

“You’re home!” Laf says exultantly. He flings himself at Marissa first, then darts over to grab Jack in an equally enthusiastic hug. A week ago, he would have been uncomfortable enough to step back or try to deflect the embrace; now, after the loneliness of being at his parents’ house and the sheer terror of the flashbacks and the hospital, he clings to Laf for as long as he can without looking utterly dependent. “My friend, you must never do something like that again! Alex and I were going to come and get you, but Papa stopped us from taking the car.”

“Which is a good thing,” Jack points out, grinning helplessly at Laf as they finally let go and back off. “Since neither of you has a license or knows how to drive a car.”

“We would have figured it out,” Laf says, waving off the objection with an airy hand. “We are very clever, you know, and have life experience. Why, I am confident that our scheme to get you out of there would have been entirely successful!”

“You wanted to use dynamite, son,” Jordan says drily, appearing from behind Jack. He’s grinning broadly, and Jack finds himself caught up in another embrace. It’s so unexpectedly wonderful that he lets himself get lost in it for a moment, closing his eyes in relief. He’s home, and Jordan and Marissa aren’t about to let anyone take him away again just yet, and he’s not locked in that hospital room anymore. Jordan lets go eventually, but looks Jack over intently. “Are you honestly all right, Jack?”

“I will be,” he says, smiling up at Jordan, feeling a little shy at the moment despite, or maybe because of, the closeness and intensity of his homecoming. “I think I understand a good deal more about what you and Marissa have been trying to teach us. I didn’t really understand how hard it would be, trying to go back out into the normal world.”

“It won’t be that way forever,” Jordan assures him. “Most of us manage very well in the normal world, you know. You just need to give yourself time and space to learn to manage your memories, to figure out who you are. We’re very happy to help you boys with all of that.”

He pats Jack on the shoulder and goes over to greet Marissa, kissing her soundly. Jack and Laf roll their eyes at one another, and Laf takes it on himself to get Marissa’s luggage out of the car and haul it into the house. Jack follows him, though he has nothing to carry. It’s all right. He doesn’t want any of the things that might remind him of this last trip to his parents’ house right now, anyway.

“We were not going to use dynamite,” he protests to Jack on the way in. “That was merely on our list of potential distractions, and it would only have been fake dynamite. As an officer and a gentleman, I would never risk harm to the sick and injured!”

“But Alex would?” Jack guesses. Laf gives a crinkly-faced wince of agreement that makes Jack laugh aloud.

“He says he would, but I do not believe it,” Laf confides. “He is better than he pretends to be, our Alex.”

“That’s very true,” Jack says, thinking of Alex’s weird, spiky sorts of protectiveness, how he would help out without ever seeming to acknowledge that he was doing so. It would have been awfully nice to have that sort of shield with him for the past twenty-four hours, he thinks.

There’s a surge of that same formless sadness from his dream, and he stops a moment, trying to remember the cause. Everything from the past few days is blurry, though - all the bits and pieces of memories he’d been putting together are disarranged and unclear again. He can remember the cannons that had set everything off, and there are vague shapes of war and combat flickering through his head, but nothing clear to go on.

“I was very good at daring escapes in my first life, you know,” Laf is saying cheerfully. “I could have arranged it without a problem.”

“You almost sound disappointed that Marissa did it for you!” Jack teases, making himself shake off the strange sadness.

“Disappointed, no! We wanted her to get you out right away, of course. But if she had not been able to, Alex and I would have done it, and it would have been glorious!” He stands riveted for a moment, as if dreaming of that missing glory, and Jack punches him lightly in the shoulder.

“You just wanted a chance at madcap adventures.”

“No,” Laf says, suddenly serious. “We just wanted you to come home.” He stares at Jack for a long moment, eyes distant. “Sometimes I think we must have known each other before, you know? I have met many Second-Timers, some of whom I knew in the life before, but I have never had a bond with any of them the way I have with you and Alex. I wonder, sometimes, if we three were not friends then, too.”

Jack doesn’t know what to say to that. He knows that he knew Alexander Hamilton, but he doesn’t know who Laf had been, and he isn’t about to ask. He can’t take another massive memory retrieval right now. He shrugs one shoulder instead. “It could be. I don’t know enough of my first life yet to say - but I know I haven’t had friends like you in this life before. I’ll take it, no matter what may have happened the first time around.”

“Too right,” Laf cries, all enthusiasm again. He drops Marissa’s suitcase at the foot of the stairs and looks around. “Where has Alex gone? He was here not ten minutes ago!”

Jack looks around, and notices the Christmas decorations at last. Jordan, Laf, and Alex have been busy. There are twinkling lights on the banister of the staircase, and garland and pinecones on every surface, and Jack thinks he spots at least six random arrangements of holly, tucked away in the oddest places. It’s the first time he’s thought about Christmas in days, and he can’t help but grin at the untidy perfection of it all.

As if summoned by the speaking of his name, Alex bursts out of a door up above them and thunders down the stairs at a dangerous pace. He grabs Jack by one arm - much more gently than he usually remembers to be - and stares at him, looking him over with an intensity that reminds Jack of military inspections.

“They didn’t do anything awful, right?” Alex asks sharply. “What happened? Which hospital were you in?”

“I don’t even know,” Jack admits. “I was out of it when I got there, and Marissa handled everything to get me out again.”

“What happened?” Alex demands again. He isn’t letting go of Jack’s arm.

Jack shrugs, a little helpless. “There were cannons - the 1812 Overture, you know? And it touched off a series of flashbacks that I couldn’t get out of. It was like it kept trying to pull me back - the past, my past life - and I couldn’t make it stop.”

Laf winces in sympathy. “My first major flashback was rather like that, I’m afraid. It was very difficult.”

“What did they do?” Alex presses.

“Drove me to the hospital and gave me a sedative,” Jack says. He tries to say it lightly, as though it hadn’t mattered. “I didn’t love the idea, but it finally made the flashbacks stop and let me get out of there once Marissa arrived.”

“OK,” Alex says. He finally lets go, and scribbles a few notes in the little notebook he’s got clutched in his other hand. “So we need to teach you how to keep them from drugging you, how to get out of a locked room or ward, how to fake unconsciousness - do you know how to pretend to take a pill without actually swallowing it?” He looks at Jack intently, no sign of any amusement in his dark eyes.

“No,” Jack admits. “Alex, I’m really fine, and I have no plans to wind up in a place like that again. You don’t need to worry about me.”

Alex raises a sarcastic eyebrow. “Oh, I’m sorry! I must be talking to someone else, and not the Jack Laurence who just got himself kidnapped and drugged by the fascist medical complex.” He shakes his head, looking disgusted. “You wouldn’t be fine right now if Marissa hadn’t been there to get you out. We can’t ever rely on having backup in places like those. Do you know how to pick a lock?”

“No,” Jack says again. “Alex, calm down. They didn’t all have the greatest bedside manner, I’ll grant you, but none of them were trying to hurt me! They just wanted to be sure I wasn’t going to hurt someone else, or myself.”

“They don’t care what we do to ourselves,” Alex says tightly. “They just don’t want to have to deal with the problems we cause. They don’t really see us as people. We’re a diagnosis, nothing more.”

His stomach turns a little at that, because it’s pretty much exactly how his father acts now, ever since the truth became clear.

Alex writes a few more notes, and nods approvingly at the page. “We’ll start this lot as soon as your hands stop shaking,” he says. Jack hadn’t even noticed that they were, but Alex isn’t wrong. He always notices everything. “Bet they didn’t feed you or anything,” Alex snaps. “Come on, let’s get food. I’m starving.”

He stomps off towards the kitchen, and Laf whispers in Jack’s ear, “Alex would not eat or sleep at all, not since we heard from Marissa. Even after we saw you were safe, he said he needed to see you himself before he’d believe it.”

Jack glances out the window as he and Laf follow Alex. Jordan and Marissa are still outside by the car, talking, their heads inclined together. The seriousness of their expressions is evident even from a distance, and for a moment, he’s tempted to try to eavesdrop. He squashes that instinct, reminding himself he’s not a spy anymore, and goes to find some proper lunch.

~~~~~~

After they’ve all eaten - enough for an army, Marissa says when she and Jordan finally come in - Jack does a little math and works out that they’re almost halfway through December 22nd, and somehow Christmas is almost upon them. Jordan takes charge.

“Right, men,” he says crisply, like a soldier giving orders. His eyes are twinkling in a very un-military way, though, and he can’t make himself stop breaking into smiles. “Our mission is to ensure the deployment and success of all elements necessary for the best Christmas of all time. Our time is limited; our resources are scattered, and our mission commander is in dire need of a nap.” He grins over his shoulder at Marissa, who has just been caught in the middle of a massive yawn, and so cannot argue. “We will need all hands working together to accomplish a task of this immensity!”

“You mean it’s time to get the Christmas tree, right?” Laf says, grinning back at Jordan. Somehow, even though he knows they’re not biologically related, Jack thinks he looks startling like his father in that moment.

“That’s the first big task, yes,” Jordan admits.

And so, because his life is now weird and sort of wonderful, Jack finds himself tromping through the Wallertons’ massive estate, dragging a wheeled cart, as Laf examines every pine tree on the property for its Christmas potential. When he’s finally satisfied, Alex hacks it down with a disturbing amount of glee, and they haul it back on the cart.

“Remember, in our day, how only the Hessians had Christmas trees?” Laf asks, sounding almost wistful. “Who would have thought they would become so popular?”

Alex scoffs, but it’s not as bitter now. The exercise and the use of a hacksaw have sweetened his temper a bit. “Don’t call the past our day, Laf. This is our day, right now. We can do better this time.”

“Ah, but all the opportunities for glory are gone, now,” Laf mourns.

“And so are the opportunities to die of yellow fever and malaria and dysentery,” Alex points out. “Face it, Laf. We’ve come a long way. Your old-time glory doesn’t hold up quite so well against things like functional weather prediction systems.”

“Slavery,” Jack finds himself saying, as Laf opens his mouth to protest. “I can’t be sorry to be in a world where the abomination of chattel slavery is no longer a part of our national economy.” He feels a pang, again, a distant sadness at the idea of everything he’d left undone, but he’s still a bit off balance from the sedative, and it doesn’t hit him as hard as it usually would.

“Fine,” Laf says, giving a huff of annoyance. “This is why the two of you are only friends with other Second-Timers, though, you know? You must always find the negatives in everything.”

Alex scoops a pinecone off the ground and tosses it at Laf’s head, but he ducks too fast, and it smacks Jack in the face. He gapes at Alex for a minute, and then returns fire. They wind up in a vicious three-way pinecone battle, with no alliances heeded or quarter given, and the only thing that brings it to a close is the fact that the sun is going down. They trudge back to the house, tree in tow.

“I hate how dark it is all the time in the winter,” Alex says, eyeing a few more loose pinecones thoughtfully. “The sun barely comes up and it’s going down again, and every day is shorter than the last.”

“No,” Jack says, and he smiles at the way Alex narrows his eyes, upon being contradicted. “That was yesterday. Today is a little longer and brighter, and tomorrow will be even more so. We’re past the darkest day.”

“Are we?” Alex asks, turning to look Jack in the eyes. There’s a shadow there that he’s come to recognize, and he knows now what Alex meant about knowing the bad things are coming and not being able to stop them. Still, he nods his head firmly.

“Yes.” He looks back at Alex without blinking. “There will be other dark days, but the worst is past. We don’t have to be in the dark alone anymore.”

“Until next year, when the days get shorter again,” Laf says, cheerfully missing everything that lies beneath the surface of their words.

Alex can’t stop a reluctant grin from tugging at the side of his mouth, and they keep heading home in the fading twilight.

It takes hours to set up the tree and decorate it with lights and mismatched Christmas ornaments, and Jack has rarely enjoyed an evening so much. It’s the first Christmas tree he’s ever gotten to decorate, and the Wallertons are full of stories about various ornaments as they rediscover them. There’s a tiny, hand-sewn American flag ornament that the modern-day reincarnation of Betsy Ross had made when she was fostered with them for a while, and a number of horrible handmade ornaments from Laf’s first Christmas with them, when he was ten.

“I was somewhat overenthusiastic then,” Laf says with absolutely no self-awareness, hanging six identical beaded somethings on the tree. Alex says they look like tombstones, but Jack’s money is on bells. Could be tombstones, though, to be honest.

Jordan forces cookies and hot chocolate on all of them - not that they’re exactly protesting - and Marissa puts on Christmas music, and it’s like something out of the holiday films that Jack had always assumed were completely made up. When the tree is finally done, Laf runs around and turns off all the lights, until the living room is only illuminated by the flickering light of the fire and the glow of Christmas lights. Jordan and Marissa sit together on the couch, and Laf sits on the floor by their feet, his head tipped back to rest against their legs. Alex goes over to poke at the fire, which draws Jack’s eyes toward the mantle. Five stockings are hanging there, empty, in the dim light.

He goes over to stand by Alex, and nudges him with an elbow. “Look,” he murmurs. “Stockings.”

They glance at them together, and Jack’s mouth falls open when he sees that their names are already on them, just as though they’ve been here all along, just as though they were properly part of the family. Alex looks as bewildered as he feels.

Laf insists that they all camp out in his room again that night, and nobody objects. Jack finds he doesn’t really want to be in a room alone just yet, even if he might wind up dreaming awful things and waking the others up. It’s one of the unspoken risks, but they both seem willing to take it.

He sleeps through the night.

~~~~~

On the 23rd, they bake cookies to replace all the ones they’ve already eaten, and Jack finishes up the little gifts he’s been working on for all of them, and they all go for a ride when the day proves unseasonably warm and sunny. Jack isn’t afraid of the horses anymore, even if he’s not yet a huge fan, but it’s so nice to be together that he wouldn’t care if they were trying to ride kangaroos.

Marissa gets out a gorgeous, detailed puzzle of tall ships in a sea battle, and they all crowd around the table to start sorting through the pieces. They all know it’s time to do some talking, but they also know that it’s far easier to do when their hands are busy.

“Where do you want to start?” Jordan asks Jack. “Flashbacks, or hospital?”

“I need to figure out how to deal with flashbacks better,” Jack admits, “but I can’t remember almost anything from what I was seeing. It’s like I got a glimpse of it, and then it disappeared into a fog bank.”

“Fucking sedatives,” Alex says fiercely. “They’ll mess with your head every time.”

“So I’ve heard, but I’ve never experienced it myself,” Jordan says thoughtfully. “Can you tell us any more about it, Alex?”

Alex shrugs. “Sure. It doesn’t reflect badly on me, just on the absolute morons who were running the program where they put me. I was twelve, and I was one of the youngest kids there. Most of them were a lot older, and dealing with the kinds of things you are,” he says to Jack, almost sounding apologetic. He pieces together a large section of sky along one border and pushes it into place. “The staff didn’t really know what to do with us. There wasn’t anything physically wrong, after all, but flashbacks and PTSD attacks and anxiety and all the rest - they couldn’t handle it. Mostly they just used sedatives when they got too concerned, and let us try to figure things out ourselves.”

“Was everyone there a Second-Timer?” Marissa asks, sounding concerned. “Why weren’t you in proper therapeutic homes?”

“We were too far gone at the time,” Alex says bluntly. “Nobody could handle us. Once we either figured out how to handle our own issues or how to fake it well enough to get out, they found placements for us again, but some of them weren’t interested in ever getting out.”

“Denial?” Jordan asks. Alex nods.

“Some of them honestly would rather believe they’d gone insane. Others were so obsessed with the past that they couldn’t handle the present at all. They’d panic at electric lights and things like that.”

“That is terrible,” Laf whispers. He’s fidgeting with puzzle pieces, but not really putting anything together. “

“That’s why you were so concerned about Jack,” Jordan says thoughtfully.

“It wasn’t really like that, where I was,” Jack puts in. “I mean, I guess I wasn’t there long enough to really tell, but I don’t think it would have been that way.”

“Good,” Alex says firmly. “Because people die in those places, and I wasn’t about to just wait for you to not come back.”

“What do you mean, people die?” Marissa presses. “That doesn’t sound right.”

“I know at least one in my program did,” Alex says flatly. “And nobody seemed that shocked, which tells me they’ve seen it before.”

“Did you know them?” Laf asks. “The person who died?”

Alex hesitates a moment. “Sort of. He was the only one younger than me there, at the time. He couldn’t handle the memories at all. They kept him on meds that were supposed to help, but they didn’t. He’d already been there more than a year when I arrived, and then I guess I was the last straw.”

“What does that mean?” Jordan asks gently.

Alex shrugs. He pushes another set of linked pieces into place. “He recognized me. I was such a mess that I wasn’t any good at keeping my identity quiet, and when he learned who I was, it pushed him over the edge.”

“Why?” Laf murmurs the question, as if it’s too dangerous to be spoken aloud.

“Because he killed me, last time,” Alex says. There’s no emotion in his voice. “And I guess he’d been struggling with the guilt of it, with all the things he’d messed up the first time, so when I came along, it was just one thing too many.”

“Ohhh,” Marissa says quietly. Jordan bows his head, as if struck by something heavy. “Oh, Alex, I’m so sorry. That’s a horrible experience for you to have to live with.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Alex says. It’s not defensive or angry - more quietly sorrowful, somehow. “There wasn’t anything I could do to help him, though I would have if I could.”

Jack stares at the puzzle pieces, not really seeing them. He knows what it is to carry guilt and regrets from his first life, and he knows Alex does as well, but he’s still so unclear on the causes of those burdens. Will it be worse, once he remembers them? What if he were faced with the living embodiment of one of his great failures or faults?

Jordan and Marissa are good at what they do. They get them talking through the experiences in hospitals, and Laf tells a bit of the story of how he’d wound up with the Wallertons, and by the time the puzzle is half done, Jack feels like he’s breathing a bit more easily. It’s hard to tell, but he thinks Alex is, too.

“Jack, we’re going to have to expect to see your memory retrieval happen again within the next few days,” Marissa tells him sympathetically. “Having put it off with the sedative, it could come back even harder next time, or it might not - it’s hard to predict. What will be different this time, though, is that you won’t have to handle it alone.”

“We’ll avoid triggers as best we can, and work on coping mechanisms,” Jordan promises. “And if you need to just fight your way through it, you’re in a safe place here to do that, for as long as it takes.”

It’s a relief to know they have his back, even if the idea of going through the whole ordeal again makes his skin crawl a little. He hopes it’ll hold off until after Christmas, at least.

It does.

Christmas is as warm and wonderful as he had ever imagined it could be. They all exchanged gifts - nothing fancy, but Jack had drawn something for each of them, and Laf gave everyone fantastic books, and Alex had set his hand to calligraphy and written them each a copy of a poem in a gorgeous, flowing hand.

“You’re not the only one who remembers how to use a quill, Jack,” he says, grinning mischievously.

Jordan and Marissa have gifts for all of them, a mixture of homemade and storebought, and Jack hardly knows what to do with all of it. He’s never had a Christmas anything like this one.

They’re still camping in sleeping bags in Laf’s room on Christmas night, and the Wallertons aren’t expressing any objections, so Jack goes to sleep that night surrounded by snoring, still wrapped up in the joy of the day. He knows bad memories are coming again, whatever had shaken him so badly before, and Alex is waiting for his own dark cloud to burst open on him, and who the hell knows what’s going to happen with any of their placements or permanency plans?

But for tonight, it doesn’t really matter. He falls asleep with no fear of the past or the future, in the comfort of a present that’s far more of a gift than he could ever have asked to be given.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's so fluffy I'm gonna die! :D Look, everything is so happy! There's no way anything is ever going to go wrong again! Happy endings all around!
> 
> Uh-huh. If you're new here, this is sarcasm. 
> 
> I have to tell you guys, I've been active in a number of fandoms in my days. I've written for quite a few, and had some amazing responses to stories. I've never seen anything like the engagement, enthusiasm, and kindness I've seen from you amazing folks. I suppose it shouldn't surprise me that the Hamilton fandom should be so wonderfully inclined to write, but I have to tell you, your comments are the light of my life right now, you delightful people. 
> 
> Just in case you would like to have even more emotions, I'll tell you that the song I've decided is the anthem of this story is Found/Tonight, the collaboration by Ben Platt and Lin-Manuel Miranda. Just try to listen without crying. I can't. Yours, musically indisposed - Kivrin.


	16. sixteen

It’s only two days after Christmas when the storm of memories begins to break upon Jack again. Even knowing that it’s coming this time doesn’t make it much better. Marissa theorizes that getting back so many memories at once indicates that they were all closely bound up in his mind in the past, and it’s part of why it’s so hard.

He does manage them better the second time, though, mostly because of the support he has around him this time. He doesn’t have to worry about public flashbacks, because everyone around him recognizes them and they are all willing to help. Marissa and Jordan help him with coping techniques, and Alex and Laf have both learned to just talk to him until he comes back to the present, using their voices as an anchor to hold himself in place. He spends the better part of three days in bed with a headache that rivals a migraine, fighting through memories and sounds and sights and smells that he feels both too young and far too old to deal with.

He remembers what it is like to watch a man bleed to death; he remembers what it is like to feel that death himself. He knows the feeling of a sword in his hand, the sharp gleam of moonlight off a bayonet, the way a man might call out to god or heaven or for his mother as he died.

He knows what it is to have killed, to have sent men to those horrifying deaths, and to have watched them die with a feeling that he has done his duty.

For a few days, he wonders whether he had been an absolute psychopath.

Jordan gets him to talk about that, finally, after Marissa has found him throwing up one time too many.

“It sounds like you were a soldier, son,” he says quietly, sitting on the edge of Jack’s bed as Jack stares sightlessly at the ceiling. “Not a murderer, not a lunatic. We lived in a very different time, with different codes of honor and expectations. If you were a soldier, you were doing your duty.”

“But I killed them,” Jack says. He doesn’t look at his hands.

“I know,” Jordan says heavily. “So did I.” He sighs, so deep and solemn that it’s almost a sob. “And that isn’t the worst of the things I did. I’m sorry that you must learn to live with this, Jack. It’s not fair that you carry the burden of guilt for things you never did, but we were never promised fairness.”

“Is that why we’re back?” Jack asks, his voice choked. “Is it punishment, for what we did before?”

“I really don’t think so,” Jordan says gently. He puts a steadying hand on Jack’s wrist. “Marissa wonders that too, sometimes; the fact that she never killed a soul doesn’t mean she doesn’t feel a burden of guilt as well. But I am uncomfortable with that interpretation. Who are we placing the blame upon, then, for judging us lacking and condemning us to another life as punishment? Does it mean that those who never had a fair chance, like babies who died at birth, are denied any chance at a second life because they were not sinful enough?” He shakes his head. “I don’t think viewing this life as a punishment is any way to go about living, Jack. We’re here, for whatever reason it might be, and we can choose to make something of this opportunity. It doesn’t have to be a torture.”

Jack doesn’t respond to that; he’s fighting off a memory of eyes, wide in the moonlight, as he had taken a soldier by surprise and knocked him out with a single blow to keep him from spreading the alarm. He hadn’t even hesitated.

He keeps his mouth shut about what he remembers.

He cannot tell Alex that he remembers him, that he had once fought with Alexander Hamilton. Alex is nothing but scorn for the past, especially for Hamilton himself, and Jack is too overwhelmed by John Laurens’ sentiments regarding Hamilton to bear any of Alex’s displeasure at the moment.

For John Laurens, Alexander Hamilton had seemingly been an outsized figure, a nexus of feeling around which so many of his thoughts and emotions swirl that Jack knows there’s more to come. His fractured recollections of Alexander in battle, or in the hours leading up to their subterfuge and attack on the British redoubt are so incomplete, he cannot begin to guess what else is there, in the depths of his memories. Jack knows there must be reasons that Alexander practically glows in John’s memories, like a fire creeping along the edge of a paper, about to set it all afire - but he doesn’t know them, yet.

It’s the worst part of the entire reincarnation problem, he sometimes thinks sourly to himself. He cannot ask John Laurens questions or get him to explain himself. He can remember John’s memories, but not the experiences and attitudes that had lain beneath his choices and actions. All he gets are the memories of the moments that come through, and then he has to try to make sense of them.

It’s a problem of interpretation, as historians have always said about Second-Timers (as well as about history in general). Jack can narrate in detail, now, what John Laurens had done at Yorktown, but he cannot explain why. He knows the furious joy of racing into battle, of throwing himself body and soul into peril, and he cannot say why Laurens had done it with such ferocity. He knows why John Laurens had gone South after the battle. He’s not sure why it had broken his heart to do so.

~~~~~~

New Years Eve is on them in less time than Jack can believe. He’s lost several days to memory retrieval, of course, and by the time he’s back on his feet properly with his new memories more or less slotted into place, they’re on the brink of a new year. Everyone gets philosophical and thoughtful about it. Jack isn’t sure whether that’s because they were particularly introspective people due to their unique life circumstances, or if it’s just because none of them have enough of a social life to think about going partying. Laf does spend a chunk of the day with friends from school, but even he’s home in plenty of time for dinner.

As it turns out, though, this is in part because Laf has put some things together himself, and has things to say.

He finds Alex in the living room with Jack, both of them taking turns throwing popcorn into the fire from across the room and seeing who has better aim. (It’s Alex, which is so not a surprise.) Laf comes in, looking unusually perturbed, and ignores Jack entirely. He marches up to Alex and crosses his arms, glaring at him.

“Does he know who you are?” Laf asks, jerking his head at Jack, as though he’s not there. Alex looks startled.

“I think I let it slide once,” Alex says slowly, and Jack nods. He doesn’t make a big deal about it; he doesn’t need Alex to know how badly that one dropped name has shattered the foundations of his world for the last six weeks. “Why?”

“Because I have finally figured out why I remember you, and I did not wish to give you away if you were keeping your identity secret from Jack,” Laf says. Even though he’s clearly angry - much angrier than Jack has seen him before - he’s still so full of courtesy and respect for his friends that it takes Jack’s breath away a little. Laf is a good man. “I need to talk to you, Alexander.”

“Alex,” Alex says curtly. He gets up, standing a few inches shorter than Laf, and nods his head. “Let’s talk then. Do you want to tell me who you were, or am I meant to guess?”

“I can go,” Jack offers, but Laf ignores him.

“A duel?” Laf demands, eyes flashing. He is much older all of a sudden, strange and distant, like a man from a foreign place. “You were a brother to me. You cared for my son! And I had to learn of your death in an ill-advised duel after the fact in the newspapers, once the news finally reached France! I had meant to see you again, and instead all I could do was visit your grave, Alexander.”

Alex stares at him for a long moment, and then his mouth falls open in shock. “You’re fucking kidding me. Lafayette?”

Laf throws his hands up in something like outrage. “How has it taken you this long to recognize me? I have hardly been subtle! Now I begin to think that our friendship meant less to you than it did to me, Alexander!”

“Alex,” Alex insists again, still looking poleaxed. “Lafayette? How can you be here?”

Laf rolls his eyes enormously, looking fifteen again in an instant. “I died, Alex, and was born again in this world and came to find myself here with the Wallertons, just as you have. How is this hard to understand? You used to be more brilliant, my friend.”

Alex stares at him, shaking his head to one side repeatedly, like a dog with water in one ear. He doesn’t seem able to comprehend Laf’s words at all. “I never thought-” he murmurs, face crumpled with confusion and a depth of emotion that he usually keeps hidden. “My dear friend?”

He lunges at Laf in an instant, wrapping his arms around him, and Jack almost dies of shock. He hadn’t thought to ever see Alex so expressive. Laf’s anger drops away at once, and he holds Alex tightly, both of them beginning to laugh as the absurd reality sinks in.

“But surely you died in France,” Alex objects, when he finally lets go. Jack considers slipping away to let them have this conversation in private, but judges he would probably cause more distraction by getting up and moving than by sitting quietly and allowing them to forget him. “How are you here in America?”

“We do not know, entirely,” Laf says, brushing away evidence of tears and grinning at Alex. “I was unusually devoted to this country, you know. Though I died in France, and her I also loved, I found myself an American by birth this time when I came to know myself.”

“So you’re not really French now?” Alex asks. Laf shrugs.

“Depends on your meaning. I remember being French; I remember loving my country and giving my life to her wellbeing. I think I become more French as I become more Lafayette, if you understand me.”

Alex shakes his head, wonderingly. “I knew your son - I remember! He stayed with us for months while you were busy with the revolution over there!”

“Georges,” Laf says, wistful for a long moment. “I was glad he was not in prison with me.” He sighs, and then refocuses. “But this is not what I was saying! How could you allow yourself to die in such a duel - and with Aaron Burr? The man was a terrible shot! How did he manage to strike you at all?”

“I threw away my shot,” Alex says quietly. He shrugs. “I thought he would, too. I underestimated how angry I had made him.”

“I visited your family, many years later,” Laf says. “Eliza was most kind to me.”

Alex looks away. “I hope she didn’t have to come back,” he murmurs. “She doesn’t deserve any of this. She was always too good for me.”

“That she was,” Laf agrees cheerfully. He stops again after a second, and now it’s his turn for his jaw to drop. “Alexander - you said that he died, in the hospital - Aaron Burr?”

Alex nods, looking old and tired. “I couldn’t help him, Laf. I didn’t know anything yet, and my son and daughter-” he breaks off, and Laf squeezes his shoulder.

“Poor Burr,” Laf says quietly. “I wish they had sent him here.”

“The Wallertons can’t take everyone,” Alex points out.

“No, but they do everything they can,” Laf says. He brightens again. “Alexander, you must remember Tighlman?”

“Old Tench?” Alex says, now grinning, a spark of light appearing in his eyes. “Of course! Is he here?”

Laf laughs. “He was here until only a few months before you arrived! He has gone home to his family now, but he visited at Thanksgiving. If only I had known who you were I could have introduced you.”

“Wait,” Alex says. “Trent - is that his name now?” When Laf nods, he gives a bark of laughter. “I spent half the day on Thanksgiving talking to him! I knew he seemed familiar, but I had no idea it was Tighlman!”

“Come and see - I have pictures from when he lived with us,” Laf says, pulling Alex along by an arm, and they’re gone in a moment. Jack is very glad he had stayed quiet, had not interrupted their conversation by trying to sneak away.

Lafayette. He remembers that name, with a startling warm fondness that’s not actually very different from his feelings about Laf now, except there’s a greater depth and clarity to his historical sentiments. Lafayette had been at Yorktown, he remembers vaguely - and Tighlman, he knows that name too. They’re not the explosions Alexander’s name had been, but he’s a little dizzy from the rush of memories that come up at the names, and he collapses lengthwise on the sofa to stare at the fire, trying to remember better. Lafayette, with his thousand impossible names and his thick accent; they had spoken in French often, to allow John to keep his French sharp, and Lafayette had gently mocked his own accent, so much worse than Lafayette’s.

It’s a warm and pleasant thought, at last, as he remembers what Laf had said about his own death at an old age, and the ease with which he had passed from one world to another. At least one of them had made it out of their first life more or less intact, it seemed, though he knows Laf must have scars and traumas of his own, from both of his lifetimes. Marissa keeps reminding them that nobody makes it through even one life unscarred, let alone two.

Laf and Alex are gone for hours, leaving Jack plenty of time to think - not always a safe proposition. He takes himself up to his room and lets himself draw, trying to find an image of Lafayette in his head clear enough to let him sketch the man he’d once known. John Laurens had a good memory for faces, it seems; he produces a rough sketch in the end that’s clear enough for him to recognize the features.

He thinks while he draws. Now he is in a home with two people he had known at least in passing in the past, and part of him wishes he could reveal himself to them, and be part of a reunion like the one he had just witnessed. The rest of him, however, is sensible, and tells him to keep his mouth shut. He still doesn’t know John Laurens, or understand any of what had motivated him. He’s not opening his mouth and talking when he doesn’t know what will come out. What if Laurens had been fond of them, but the sentiment had not been returned? What if Laurens had mortally offended one of them at some point?

Alex and Laf are here with the Wallertons to stay - that much is evident. Jack is here on loan, essentially; he’ll go back, or go somewhere else, when the Wallertons find the person they’re seeking. If Laf or Alex have a problem with who he was, for some reason, he’ll be gone that much faster, and he is too much of a coward to face life outside their home just yet, especially after what he’s been through.

As Jack, they’ll let him stay. He’s even beginning to let himself believe that they’re fond of him - their eagerness to have him home again had made him see that, even if he can’t quite understand it. As Jack, he needs the help and therapy, needs the security before he has to go back out and stand on his own two feet and make his way in the world. As Jack, he cannot let John get in his way. That’s what Alex always says about Alexander, right?

He’s Jack Laurence, and that’s what he has to hold on to. John Laurens is dead, if not gone; John is hardly more than the memory of a name at this point, and it’s Jack who has to make a life for himself in the world. What does a man who couldn’t even live properly, die properly, or stay dead properly have to offer Jack in the modern world?

Nothing.

It’s New Year’s Eve. It’s traditional to make resolutions, he thinks. New beginnings.

He resolves a few things. First and foremost, he’s going to keep himself at the Wallertons for as long as he can, whatever that takes. He’s got to, because he is not equipped for the world yet, and he has so much to learn.

Secondly, he resolves not to let anyone know what he knows of his past, for fear they’ll put it together, and John Laurens, the disappointment, the failure, will cost Jack his chance at a decent life.

Thirdly, then, he resolves not to allow himself to research John Laurens or any of the history surrounding Hamilton and Lafayette. The more he knows, the more he’s like to remember, the Wallertons have told him, and the more he remembers, the greater the danger of accidentally revealing himself to Alex or Laf, and the consequences of that are just too dangerous.

And fourthly, following on to all of that, he knows that he cannot allow himself to get hung up on Alex the way John’s memories tell him he should wish to do. Just because John had been hopelessly infatuated with Alexander doesn’t mean anything to Jack and Alex, he thinks fiercely.

He gathers up his drawings of Hamiton and Lafayette and hides them carefully inside a blank notebook, tucking it in among the other books on his shelf. Laf and Alex can’t see what he’s drawn, and he’ll have to be a good deal more careful whose images he allows to flow from the tip of his quill, in future.

It’s almost January, he thinks, going to look out the window where night has already fallen. His chances of still being in this house by next New Year’s Eve are very small indeed, but he’ll do everything he can to try. South Carolina holds nothing for him now, and Alex has told him about other foster homes; the only other option is a mental hospital, it seems, and he still needs to take Alex up on his offer to teach Jack how to get out of those places, just in case.

~~~~~

They play games after dinner, everyone aggressively normal and cheerful, even though there’s been a measurable shift in dynamics now that Alex and Laf know one another. Alex has asked both Laf and Jack not to say anything to Jordan and Marissa about his identity, yet. He’s not ready to share, and Jack can absolutely respect that decision.

The Wallertons have a tradition they share with the boys that night. They spend a bit of time writing down their fondest hopes and wishes for the new year, and then throw them in the fire, unread by anyone else.

“Of course we don’t think it does anything magical,” Marissa says, laughing as though she knows exactly how crazy it sounds. “But there’s something good about putting your hopes into words, and making a plan to accomplish your goals.”

They all take part. Jack curls himself into a corner of the couch and writes, small and determined, _Don’t make me leave yet. Give me more time. Please._

He folds the paper into a tiny square, and drops it into the fire with the rest, feeling a flare of pleasure as it flares up and then crumbles to ashes. For better or for worse, he’s put it out there, and he does have a plan for achieving his goals. If it feels a little like he’s burning up a part of John Laurens, rejecting it in favor of Jack and his future, then so be it.

Alex looks as fierce as Jack feels, and Laf looks wistful - hopeful, maybe. Jordan and Marissa are both serious and composed, but he can feel a sadness beneath their calm faces, as though they’re both wishing for something they’re afraid they will not get. He knows the feeling.

They ring in the new year quietly, with no screaming or fanfare - just warmth and security, and all the people Jack most wants to see right now. It’s perfect.

~~~~~

Alex and Laf are connected at the hip for the next few days, trading memories and information in quiet voices that Jack does his best not to listen to. For some reason finding Lafayette has poked a hole in Alex’s defenses where Alexander is concerned. He’s less scornful and bitter, and they seem to be sharing stories of fatherhood. He wonders for a fleeting moment if he had had any children himself, but pushes that idea away firmly. He’s not interested in John Laurens.

They go back to school in the first week of January, and Jack makes himself dig into his academics with a great deal more passion and diligence than before. If his focus is going to be on the future, he’s going to need his education, and he’s already had to switch schools once this year. Unless he’s very lucky, he’ll probably be switching back again when he has to leave the Wallertons, so there’s not much chance he’ll have a stellar freshman year anyway. He still ought to try.

His memories back up slowly, back before Yorktown and seeing Alexander for the last time, which is something he does not allow himself to think about at all. He can’t afford to continue being distracted by a centuries-old unrequited affection. Jack finds he’s getting better at selective remembering. He pushes away everything about Alexander, everything too personal, and only lets the things through that he can handle with more emotional distance - tactics and negotiations, and working in France to try to secure more aid, more loans. He’d been so far from home, and from all the things that mattered most, even though he knew his efforts were important to the war.

It makes him feel lonely, especially when Alex and Laf are so caught up in their reminiscences. He finds himself seeking out Marissa and Jordan’s company more often, doing his homework in the kitchen when they’re around. They never press him about the past, but they’re always there when he needs them, when memories press in too closely and it’s hard to breathe.

“You’re doing so well,” Marissa tells him one evening. “We’re very impressed, you know. Most kids with such early deaths struggle more than this.” She smiles at him. “I’m not asking, just to be clear, but I figure you must have been someone very levelheaded last time to be so stalwart this time around.”

“I don’t know about that,” Jack temporizes. “There are some pretty fraught memories.”

He thinks, by accident, of the near suicidal relish with which John Laurens had thrown himself into combat at Yorktown, and again at the moment of his death. Levelheaded probably isn’t the right word. He shakes it off.

Marissa nods in understanding. “We lived in a more dangerous world, in a lot of ways. We all have those sorts of memories.”

“Do you ever miss it?” Jack asks, just out of curiosity. Everything is still too distant for him to really feel like he ever lived or belonged in the foreign country that was the past. Marissa shrugs.

“Parts of it. People, mostly, who were dear to me, and the project of starting a new nation was exceptionally exciting. I love air conditioning and central heating, though, and being able to wear pants and have a career of my own. I wouldn’t go back, if I had the choice, but it’s nice to have the memories to look back on.”

That sounds like a nice balance to have reached. He hopes he gets there, someday.

Phil is waiting for them after school when they get home the next day. Jordan’s been sitting and talking to him at the kitchen table, and both men look serious and not quite pleased. Jack feels his heart speed up.

“Good afternoon,” Phil greets them. “How is school going?”

“Fine,” Alex says shortly. “Are you here with bad news?”

“Not at all!” Phil says. He looks surprised that Alex would even ask such a question. “Just making my monthly visits.” Alex eyes him suspiciously, but finally condescends to sit at the table with them. Jordan excuses himself, but Jack can’t help but notice that he’s watching Phil with a worried look as he heads to his office.

They make pleasant small talk that doesn’t matter, and Phil runs through his list of questions for both of them, as if things might have changed in the past few weeks. There’s not much new to say.

Phil looks through his notebook. “So, you’ve been here about three and a half months so far, and it’s all going smoothly. Alex, I feel you ought to be congratulated on maintaining a placement for this long with no issues!”

“I always told the teams it wasn’t my fault,” Alex says, shrugging. “They kept putting me into inappropriate placements, that’s all. This one is good, so you won’t have trouble from me.”

Phil makes a note of that. “Still open to discussing permanency here, then?” Alex shrugs, but it isn’t a no. Phil makes another note, and then turns to Jack’s section.

“And Jack, I do have good news for you!” He smiles at Jack. “I’ve been in contact with your parents this week. Now that they’ve had time to calm themselves after the difficulties a few weeks ago, they’re ready to start working their plan in earnest. Your mother tells me they are determined to get you back home with them as soon as possible. Regular video visitations are set to begin again tomorrow, and you’ll be back on the same daily schedule as before.” He nods at his paperwork, looking pleased. “It always is nice when a case takes a turn for the better.”

Alex is glaring at the tabletop, as if he might set it on fire with his eyes, and Jack can think of nothing to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did warn you, kids. You can't say you weren't warned. I'm really excited with some of the developments upcoming, and I've got a pretty aggressive schedule mapped out for myself with regard to writing this week. We'll see how it goes! 
> 
> Love to you all - I have the honour to be, etc. - Kivrin.


	17. seventeen

Jack goes to bed early that night. He can’t sit at the table with the rest and pretend that nothing is wrong - or, worse, that he’s happy that his parents are taking an interest in him again, all of a sudden. He’d sort of counted them out of the picture after Christmas, and he has no idea why they’re suddenly eager to have him returned. It doesn’t make sense.

Going to bed hungry and in a bad mood is very bad for his dreams, though, and he wakes up screaming. He has vague memories of cold so intense he thought he might lose his fingers and toes, of hunger so all-encompassing he could think of nothing else. Jack feels like he’s remembering those things at a remove, though - as if he’s remembering John’s memories, rather than the events themselves. He shoves his freezing feet into slippers and creeps downstairs, needing to fill his stomach and warm his hands before he can even think about sleeping again.

It’s very late - after one am - and he almost has a heart attack when he reaches the bottom of the stairs and spots lights still on in the living room and Jordan and Marissa still awake. They almost never stay up this late. He doesn’t want to disturb them, but he really does need something to eat. He hesitates on the stairs for a minute, debating with himself.

In the living room, Marissa’s head is on Jordan’s shoulder, and he’s fiddling with her hair absent-mindedly. They’ve been sitting in silence for a little while, obviously, which was why Jack hadn’t heard them on his way down. He’s almost made up his mind to cough or something, to announce his presence, when Marissa shakes her head and bursts out into quiet, furious speech.

“You know what it is, right? Why they’ve suddenly decided they give a shit about their kid?”

“Honey, we don’t know what they’re thinking,” Jordan says, obviously trying to be reasonable. He doesn’t sound very convinced of his own words. “We’ve seen plenty of cases where it takes parents a while to wrap their heads around their new reality. I’m sure it’s a good thing that they’re willing to start working towards reunification now.”

They’re talking about his parents. He really really should leave now.

He doesn’t.

“You wouldn’t say that if you’d been there in Charleston, love,” Marissa says. She sounds dangerous again, the way she had in the hospital. “No. I’ll bet you a week of dish duty that they just got hit with the demands for child support.”

Jordan frowns. “He’s been here more than three months - surely that would have kicked in right away? They’re supposed to start paying as soon as the child is in care.”

“Ahh, but with the inter-state compact, everything gets hung up,” Marissa says. “Crossing county lines can be bad enough, as we know. Across states, and with as hung up in red tape as our respective state governments can get, I’m not surprised it’s taken them this long.”

“Which means they’ll have gotten hit with three months back support at once,” Jordan says gloomily. He sighs. “I really hope you aren’t right, hon. I’d hate to think they’re only looking to get him home because they don’t want to pay.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me one bit,” Marissa says, sounding bitter. “Who does that to their son - abandons him in a hospital when he’s scared out of his mind and needs help? I thought Phil had their number after that little display.”

“Phil is doing his best,” Jordan says unhappily. “You know reunification is the primary goal, and he’ll be under as much pressure from higher up as we are to make sure it happens, if it’s even remotely feasible. And you know we have to support that family bond and reunification in every way we can. He isn’t ours, Marissa, whether we like it or not.”

“You know I’ll be nothing but supportive. Our job is to support Jack, though, not to drag his parents through the basic requirements of learning to help him manage his life.” Jack thinks she might be crying a little. “And I don’t think there’s a family bond to maintain. Jack has never expressed any sort of homesickness, and he was so eager to come back here. He called this home, honey. All I wanted to be able to do was promise him that it would be, but I can’t even do that, for so many reasons.”

“I know. We have to try to be positive about the parents, though.” Jordan strokes her hair gently. “We have to promote that bond as best we can.”

“You play good cop and do that,” Marissa says. “I’ll keep my mouth shut about his parents when Jack is around, but that’s the best I can do right now. They’re not fit to parent a guinea pig, in my opinion, let alone a high-needs kid like a Second Timer - especially an older onset, and they certainly aren’t fit to be caring for a kid as sweet and sensitive as this one.”

“I know.” Jordan sounds tired. “And I expect they’ll try to move fast, now that they’re set on it. If they get their requirements met by the six month review, I think Phil will be under a lot of pressure to start reunification proceedings.”

“There’s no way Jack will be ready for that in less than three months,” Marissa objects. “He has so much to deal with, still.”

“You won’t find me disagreeing with you,” Jordan says, laughing a little, but it’s a sad sound. “But when have we ever had a say in these things? The best we can do is help him as much as we can while we’ve got him, and then stay in contact as a resource afterwards.”

Marissa is quiet for a long time. “I hate this,” she says eventually, and Jack can tell that she’s definitely crying now.

He isn’t hungry anymore, though he’s colder than ever. He creeps back up the stairs and goes back to bed. He doesn’t sleep any more that night.

~~~~~

He goes to find Alex the next day after school. He’s not surprised to find him in the stables, grooming his favorite horse. Jack sits down on a hay bale and watches him for a moment.

“I want you to help me,” he says after a while. It doesn’t feel as dangerous to say as he’d thought it would. Alex frowns at him.

“With what?”

“I don’t want to go back to my parents,” he tells Alex. “Not yet, anyway. You were right. I’m not ready.”

“Of course I’m right,” Alex says. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“I don’t know,” Jack has to admit. “But you’ve been doing this so much longer than I have, I thought you might have some ideas.”

“I know how to get kicked out of homes,” Alex ruminates. “I know how to run away. If they send you back, you could always run and come back here that way; I could help you with that.”

“I don’t think the Wallertons want to hide fugitives,” Jack points out. “Seriously, you don’t have any ideas for keeping me here longer?”

“I’m working on it,” Alex says. “I have been for a while. If you’re cooperating with me now, that’ll make it easier.”

Jack tells him, in a few clipped sentences, what he’d overheard from the Wallertons, and why they suspect his parents want him back now. Alex nods. “I’ve seen that a time or two,” he admits. “Not the worst reasons shitty parents have ever wanted their kids back, but it’s a definite possibility in your case. You don’t think there’s any chance they’ve legitimately changed their minds and want you back?”

Jack laughs, feeling empty inside. “I was shocked to get home and find out they hadn’t already donated all my things to charity, from the interest they showed in having me there. I wasn’t exactly a superstar of a son before I went all Second-Timer on them.”

Alex narrows his eyes at him. “You’re a complete boy scout, Laurence. How can they not want you back?”

Jack picks up a handful of straw and starts twisting it together. “I was a mistake,” he says, shrugging as if it doesn’t matter. “They’ve always been open about that. They had life all planned out, and then I came along and messed it up.”

“So they’ve just kept you around out of some sense of obligation all along?”

“I guess,” Jack says, not looking at Alex. “I never managed to impress them with anything I did, but they always provided me with everything I needed and all of that.”

“You do know that’s not how parenting is supposed to work?” Alex says, sounding genuinely curious. Jack just shrugs again.

“Plenty of people have not-so-great parents. Mine have never been awful or cruel or anything.”

“Neither were mine, until they tossed me into a mental hospital and walked away,” Alex says sharply. “At least they pretended they had some use for me before that. Nobody is about to give them a parent-of-the-year award, but they’re also not talking about sending me back to be vaguely tolerated by them for the rest of my childhood.”

“I don’t care so much about that,” Jack lies. “But I know I can’t handle flashbacks on my own yet, and I’m not going to be ready for a while. If we can at least stall for a while, buy me a little more time here...” he lets his voice trail off.

“I am working on it,” Alex says. “I was already going to.” He brushes his horse a few more times, and blows out a deep breath. “I’m trying to figure you out, Jack.”

“Good luck with that,” Jack says tiredly. “Let me know if you do, because I’d love to know.”

“I _know_ you,” Alex says. It’s quiet and low and forceful, and a shiver goes up Jack’s back at the sound of his voice. “But I can’t figure out how. I’ve been trying to work it out for weeks, and I can’t get close.”

Jack hums, noncommittal, not letting his surprise or fear show on his face. “Maybe we went to school together or something,” he says. He’s better at lying than he used to be. “Maybe the memories are just too far back, still.”

“No,” Alex says. “I almost know, sometimes. Something you’ll say, or the way you turn your head - I’ll think, ‘there he is’, and then it’ll be gone before I know what I was thinking about.”

“You were Alexander Hamilton,” Jack says, his heart pounding in his chest. “If I remember my history right, you knew pretty much everyone who lived back then.” Alex cannot figure him out right now, because he’s already hanging on by his fingertips. He needs Alex’s help, and he can’t risk Alex discovering that he had been John Laurens, whatever that meant to Hamilton, if anything at all. He doesn't need Alex to know about Laurens' obsession with Hamilton, or whatever else his psyche is still hiding from him.

“It’s not like that,” Alex says. “It’s something bigger.” He looks at Jack. “When are you going to start talking?”

“I don’t know,” Jack says. He looks at the hay-covered floor. “I can’t, yet.”

“You don’t have to - y’know, tell me who you are, in order for me to help you,” Alex says suddenly. “I’m not trying to extort information out of you or anything. I don’t care who you were.”

“Sure you don’t,” Jack says, giving a slightly more real laugh. “That’s why you’ve been interrogating me, because you so very much don’t care.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Alex says. If he’d had bristles like a porcupine, Jack knows they would all be standing on end now. “I care, obviously, because I care about everything and have to know everyone’s business, because I’m an insufferable know-it-all in every life. But, I mean, I don’t have to know who you were in order to help you now.”

“I thought I was a doormat who needed to learn to help myself?” Jack says, laughing again, because Alex is squirming uncomfortably at his own attempts to express something like kindness, and it is genuinely funny.

“That, too,” he says, all grumpiness now. “See, I knew I should never offer to help anyone.”

“You are the most remarkably cynical person I have ever met,” Jack says, grinning at his friend, and Alex goes very still for a moment, staring at him with eyes that aren’t really seeing Jack at all. “Alex?”

He shakes his head, looking annoyed. “Damn, I almost had it. Something in what you said - and now it’s gone again.” He narrows his eyes and points at Jack. “I’m going to figure this out. I happen to have a top-notch brain, you know.”

Jack rolls his eyes, but he can’t help but ask. “You didn’t always think you knew me, though. Surely if we really had some past connection you would have remembered by now.”

“It took me this long to remember Lafayette, and he all but embroiders his entire past name on his shirts,” Alex protests. “You insist on being a - a turtle, and hiding anything you think will make you recognizable. The curiosity is killing me, Jack. Were you a pirate or something? Oh!” He looks hopeful for a minute. “Benedict Arnold?”

“Where do you get these ideas?” Jack asks, when he can stop laughing. “Oh my god, did you know Benedict Arnold?”

“I don’t know,” Alex says, slumping over his horse’s back in disappointment. “It was just a thought.”

“You’re the one who told me we’re never meant to ask about people’s pasts,” Jack points out defensively. “Only now you and Laf talk of nothing else!”

“That’s different,” Alex says. “We were friends then, and friends again now. It would be weird not to talk about our memories. You can’t talk to strangers, though, didn’t your parents ever teach you that?” He gives a wicked little grin. “And Laf’s going to help me figure out why I remember you - and Jordan, too, but Laf’s forbidden to give me any hints. I insist on remembering Jordan on my own.”

“Have you changed your mind, then, about remembering Hamilton’s life?”

Alex thinks for a minute. “A bit. I still don’t plan to turn out like him, if I can help it, but I can’t help but think that Marissa and Jordan are right when they say we can’t understand our past actions until we get the entire story. Motivations are important, too.” He looks wistful for a moment. “It’s been really nice remembering Lafayette, though. I hadn’t had many good memories from my life before. Not that good things didn’t happen, but I suppose I tended to fixate on the bad ones - and there were plenty of those.”

That makes sense, even if it doesn’t quite work for Jack’s situation right now. He has to keep his back turned on the part of him that was John Laurens - for now, anyway. Once he’s run out of time and is out on his own, he supposes he can remember everything.

~~~~~

His parents call on the computer that evening, and he has to take the call. They’re both on the other side of the screen, for the first time, though his father looks about as pleased as when his sports teams are losing every game.

“How are you, dear?” his mother asks sympathetically. “I’m sorry they wouldn’t let us see you again after the concert! We were so worried.”

Jack hesitates a moment. He could say he was fine, which is easiest; she doesn’t actually want to know how he is. But if he tells them he’s fine, will they tell Phil that he’s ready to come home? He could confront her, of course - tell them he knows why they didn’t come to the hospital, and why they’re trying to get him home now. The John Laurens part of him, the bit he’s trying really hard to ignore, wants a fight. His temper is rising fast, and Jack has to push it back as hard as he can.

“I’m still having lots of flashbacks,” he says, trying to find a middle path between the extremes. “It’s hard to deal with loud noises and things like that, because they make me remember being in battles.”

“And how’s school going?” His mother manages to entirely avoid acknowledging anything of what he’s said. It’s kind of an amazing talent of hers.

“Fine,” he says, giving up. “It’s fine.”

Outside, Laf and Alex are chopping firewood. The three of them have just discovered that, while absolutely exhausting, chopping up the wood is an intensely satisfying feeling, and some days they fight over whose turn it is. They’re using up all the wood while he has to talk, Jack thinks mulishly. The sharp impacts of axe on wood come through the window clearly.

“We’ve been discussing what to do about our vacation this summer,” Jack’s mother says. “Do you think we ought to go to Europe, or back to the Caribbean? They both have wonderful things to recommend them, of course. Your father prefers the islands, but I think we should tour around Europe for a few weeks. Think of it, Jack - we could go to Paris!”

“I’ve been to Paris,” Jack says tiredly. “Met the king, asked him for money. Very exciting.”

“That’s nice, dear,” she says, glaring at Jack’s father, who is mumbling something about the exchange rate with the euro. His head starts to ache, with a piercing pain just behind his eyes. “So we’re agreed on Europe, then? I do wish we knew what day you’d be home - it makes planning so much more difficult!”

“It might be a while before I’m ready to come back,” Jack tries, even though he knows he’s wasting his breath. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to have more flashbacks like that when we’re traveling or anything?”

“We’ll talk to the doctors at the hospital before we go,” she says easily. “Their report says they were able to stop your seizure right away with the correct medication! I’m sure that with the correct prescription, we’ll be able to put all of this behind us and go back to life as usual.”

“Not seizures,” Jack protests. “They aren’t seizures, mom, they’re flashbacks to memories from my first life.”

“That’s not what the doctor on TV says,” his father grunts, deigning to join the conversation at last. “I heard him last night. Hysteria, that’s all this is. All you need is a few dietary changes, a few supplements he was talking about, and a firmer hand on your behavior. All this Second-Timer nonsense is just the government trying to remove kids from their parents so they can brainwash them.”

Jack boggles at him. He wishes Phil were here to hear this now. “I thought they were getting you guys education on reincarnation and how it affects Second-Timers?”

“Oh yes, they’re making us watch the dullest series of videos,” his mother says, wrinkling her nose. “And then we have to take quizzes on them to prove we’ve understood them. Can you imagine?” She sighs, looking disgusted. “It’s absolutely ridiculous, of course, but that case worker of yours says it’s what we have to do so you can come home.”

His headache spikes up a few more notches, and the world starts to buzz around him, the way it does when he’s too stressed to hold back everything that he needs to. He sends Jordan a quick text where they can’t see it - just SOS, the agreed upon code in case he needs backup - and rubs his temples. “And you just still don’t believe in any of it?”

“Hysteria,” his father says again. “Government agents tricking kids into saying they’re sick so they can be taken away. You should have known better, Jack.”

“Don’t worry,” his mother says, leaning confidentially towards the camera and lowering her voice. “I’ll have a word with those doctors, and we’ll have a medication plan in place before you get home, and then we can all forget any of this ever happened.”

Medication - which means the dizziness and exhaustion, and the strange half-asleep feeling that had almost driven him mad the first time he’d had to deal with it. They can’t do that - but there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

Jack feels himself falling from his chair just as Jordan bursts in. He can’t hold it back any more. A wave crashes over him - John is so far from home, and Washington and Hamilton keep sending him letters reminding him how much is riding on his ability to get aid from the French right away. Washington is counting on him; he tells John that the army is starving and nearly naked, on the brink of complete collapse, but John can’t get anyone to listen to him. The French diplomats remind him, in supercilious tones, that he is no longer reporting to the general; he is merely a supplicant who needs to remember his place before the King. Alexander writes and tells him the loan is the _sine qua non_ , and he knows it, but he is out of his depth. John is not a diplomat.

Details float before his eyes - receptions and balls, hearings with minor officials, meetings with Franklin and Paine to try to move the matter forward, and every day the men are starving and dying back at home for lack of the money he must procure from France without delay. It doesn’t seem to matter what he says, or how carefully he phrases his requests. No-one is listening.

He hadn’t realized before that diplomacy could be every bit as stressful and horrible as pitched battle.

He finally comes back to himself to find his computer shut down peacefully, and himself lying in bed, while Jordan watches him worriedly from the chair.

“Back with us?” Jordan asks, and Jack nods tiredly. “I didn’t know you spoke French.”

“I never used to,” Jack tells him. “Was I talking in French just now?”

“You seemed to be making quite an impassioned argument,” Jordan says, chuckling. “I was tempted to get Laf to come in and translate for me.”

“No!” Jack says, before he remembers himself. “I mean, thank you for not doing that.”

“I wouldn’t,” Jordan says seriously. “Did something trigger this one?”

“I was feeling a bit stressed,” Jack admits, glancing at the laptop. Jordan follows his gaze and sighs, nodding his head knowingly. “They don’t listen,” Jack whispers. It feels like a betrayal, to talk badly of his parents to someone outside the family, but he’s so tired of dealing with it on his own, and Jordan actually cares. “They never have. It doesn’t matter what I say.”

“I hate to say it, but that’s not likely to change,” Jordan says, and he does look regretful. “Those sorts of long-term patterns usually don’t. We can work with you on self-advocacy, of course - ways to help you speak up for yourself more effectively, but it won’t guarantee that they’ll listen. You need a wider support network, that’s for certain; if your parents can’t provide it, you need to have other people to reach out to.”

Jack bites the inside of his lip to keep himself from saying anything about how badly he wants to stay, how much he doesn’t want to have to go back and spend the rest of his life being talked over and ignored. _Doormat_ , he thinks wearily. _I’m going to be a doormat forever._

“But, Jack,” Jordan continues, “I also think you need to talk to someone about some of these memories now. It doesn’t have to be me or Marissa, but I don’t think you’re going to make progress without some kind of help.”

It can’t be him or Marissa, but Jack can’t tell him that. But he has to make progress, because if he can’t get this under control before his parents get him back, he’s going to spend the rest of his life medicated to the point of insanity - and he can’t tell Jordan that, either, because he already knows that the Wallertons have no more say in whether he goes back or not than he does. Jordan doesn’t need to carry any more of his burdens, especially once he’s gone.

He looks up at Jordan, feeling so tired he can barely blink. “Who else is there?”

Jordan looks thoughtful. “I was thinking about Uncle Ben.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You want to know what the absolute worst part of fostering is? When you know they're going to make decisions that are not in the best interest of the child, and there is literally nothing you can do about it. The dirty little secret of foster care is that the best interests of the child are almost never considered. It's all about who has what rights, and what demands they can make. Marissa and Jordan, poor loves, aren't exempt from that reality either. :( The boys aren't the only ones I can cause angst. 
> 
> Anyway, on that cheery note, I'll tell you that I adore you all, and wish you the very best until tomorrow! Yrs, cynically - Kivrin.
> 
> P.S. - not to say this story is anywhere near finished, because it doesn't seem to be, but I'm also starting to let myself plot the next one in my series of Tropiest Trope Fics to Ever Trope. I think I'm calling it Sine Qua Non. Getting excited already, you guys. You're gonna be stuck with me FOREVER at this rate!


	18. eighteen

Jack is going to get to meet Uncle Ben that weekend. Jordan is all secretive smiles about it, and won’t tell him anything except that he’s going to love Uncle Ben, whoever he may be, and that Uncle Ben is the greatest confidant in the world.

Jack has to hope so. He hasn’t managed to get through a ten minute conversation with his parents yet without suffering flashbacks, or at least coming damn close to them. They’re actually calling every day now, and his mother makes a point of telling him that he needs to contact Phil and assure him that they are making all of their visits. It’s apparently a big part of their part of the case plan, the primary means by which they’re proving that they’re ready to parent him again.

He gets a lot more memories of his time in France. They’re filled with a great deal of loneliness and frustration, with a pulsing anxiety to get back to America and back into the fight, before it was too late. It seems crushingly unfair that these memories, so full of tedium and protocol and absolutely endless waiting, are the ones coming back to him with absolute clarity. He remembers that his father was a prisoner in the Tower of London at that time, and recalls exchanging letters with siblings; he cannot remember any of them, though, except as names on paper.

The memories are almost stifling, and Jack feels itchy under his skin with the tension and barely repressed temper that floods through his memories of being John Laurens, minister to France.

Jack and Alex nearly get into a fight mid-week, when Jack’s stress levels over his parents and his inability to fully repress a more than two-hundred-year-old temper tantrum over John’s treatment at the hands of a certain French diplomat collide, just as Alex is being particularly sulky and intransigent.

Alex has been working on Jack’s education, as he likes to call it. He’s kept his word about teaching him escape routes and evasion techniques, and demonstrated a fine skill at deception that Jack can only hope to begin to learn from. That’s the problem, really.

Alex wants him to be sneaky, and Jack can’t do it. Well, he probably could - he knows how to be quiet and watchful, and can go quite unnoticed when he wants, but something in him rebels hard against any suggestion of real deception. Alex is utterly unimpressed by Jack’s attempts to fake unconsciousness, which he considers an indispensable art, and Jack thinks is just ridiculous.

“I’m not going to need this, Alex,” he protests.

“Well, since you won’t speak up and tell them to leave you alone, you just might!” Alex protests, glaring at him. “What if you’re in the middle of a flashback and they want to send you back to that place? A properly timed bout of unconsciousness will get you out of more trouble than just about anything else.”

“That’s never going to work,” Jack tells him glumly. He’s not going to mention anything about the medication or his father’s belief that reincarnation is a government conspiracy, because he’s pretty sure Alex would literally explode, and nobody needs to clean up that mess. “They’ll send me wherever they want to, and there’s nothing I’ll be able to do about it.”

“I don’t understand!” Alex says, shaking his head. “I don’t get it. You won’t stand up for yourself, even when it really matters. Why won’t you fight?”

“Because it doesn’t do any good!” Jack shouts, jumping to his feet. “I fought _everything_ last time - everything, as hard as I could, and it didn’t get me anywhere! Why bother now?” He’s shocked at himself, but there’s blood pounding in his ears, and John Laurens had fought everything he could find to throw himself against - the British, and the institution of slavery, and so many of the expectations of society, and his own weaknesses, and he hadn’t won any of those battles. He’d wound up dead in the dirt at twenty-seven, all of his battles lost, and the exhaustion and frustration of that bleeds through into this life. He doesn’t want to do it again; John Laurens, however, very much does, and it’s harder to push that part of him away right now, when Alex is staring at him in shock.

“Why? Because the battles still have to be fought! We can’t just lie down and die.” Alex storms forward, getting in his face. “Last time, I threw away my shot. Every fight I gave up, every time I allowed myself to give in, I destroyed myself and those around me. I’m not doing that again.”

“Fine,” John snaps back, glaring at Alex with anger that’s been building for far too long. “You fight, then. You do it, because I’m done.”

“You’re never done!” Alex shoves him, both hands against John’s shoulders, and he backs up a few startled steps. “You never stop, you never take care of yourself!”

“Like you have any room to speak,” John shoots back.”You don’t know what it means to take a break!”

“And neither do you!” Alex shouts, storming forward and grabbing John by the shoulder, shaking him a little. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s shocking, and John stares at him. “I told you to quit, I told you to put down the fucking sword! Do you have any idea what you have done to me?”

There’s a fire in his eyes, a spark of something so wild and dangerous that Jack shakes himself free and backs up, putting up his hands. “Alex?” he says cautiously, after a moment.

Alex blinks and shakes his own head, desperate fury fading into absolute bewilderment. “What the hell?” he asks.

“What was that?” Jack asks, heart still pounding. Alex does know him, after all, and it’s all about to come out - every secret fear that keeps his mouth shut, and he doesn’t know if everything is about to come together or fall apart, but at least the damnable waiting will be over -

“I don’t know,” Alex says, putting both hands to his temples and rubbing his head fiercely. “I don’t know. I knew for a moment, I had it, and now it’s gone.” He looks at Jack with dark, confused eyes. “I knew you.”

“Did you?” Jack asks, and there’s bitterness - bitterness and a terrible longing - in the question that he cannot place. He waits for another second, not sure if he’s hoping Hamilton will remember again, or if it’s the exact opposite. Alex doesn’t say anything else, just staring at him, and Jack gives an angry shrug and walks away, wishing he understood any of what was happening.

They don’t speak of it again.

~~~~~

On Saturday, it’s approximately four degrees, and Jack is almost jealous of Laf and Alex, who get to stay home, curled in blankets in front of the fire, while he and Jordan brave the cold to go and see the mysterious Uncle Ben. He lives about an hour away, and the heater in the car works well enough, but Jack is still thinking wistfully of the fire half the way there.

“I’ve called him Uncle Ben since we first met,” Jordan tells Jack, smiling nostalgically. “I was eight at the time, just learning my old name and trying to figure out how all of this reincarnation business worked, and Uncle Ben was the foster father they placed me with.”

“So, our foster-grandfather,” Jack says, grinning a little at the idea, and Jordan nods agreement.

“Don’t tell him that, though,” he cautions. “Uncle Ben doesn’t like to admit that he’s a day over thirty, and he never has come to grips with the fact that we all have to age all over again. He absolutely refuses to wear his bifocals.” For some reason, that fact seems to strike Jordan as particularly amusing, and he keeps chuckling about it. “Anyway, I’ll tell you this: he was the most remarkable man I had ever met, and I looked up to him with awe even before I figured out who he was.”

“And you’re not going to tell me who that was, right?” Jack asks. Jordan just grins at him.

“It doesn’t matter, really. He’s wise, in ways that I can’t even begin to imagine. Uncle Ben understands things in a deep way, and sees things others miss. He was the one who introduced me to Marissa, because he figured out our connection long before either of us had any clue what we were even missing.”

“But you weren’t adopted by him or anything, right?” Jack asks, feeling awkward even bringing up the question.

Jordan shakes his head. “No. I lived with him for about four years, and then I was able to go home again. I wound up back with him again later, when my memories got particularly bad for a while, and then I sort of bounced back and forth unofficially. He always kept a room open for me, and never was too busy to listen to me, even when he was in the middle of a thousand projects.”

“Projects?”

“He’s a bit of an inventor,” Jordan says carefully. “Some might say crackpot, but most of his ideas are just so far ahead of their time that we don’t have the ability to realize them yet.”

Uncle Ben lives a little ways outside Fairfax, in a suburb that seems far too pedestrian to be concealing a crackpot inventor who is also a reincarnated genius, Jack thinks. His house is small and modest, but there are heaps of strange metal and glass and plastic pieces on the front porch that Jack can’t begin to identify.

Jordan knocks on the door, which is flung open almost at once by an elderly man whose dark skin is shockingly contrasted by his towering mane of pure white hair. He squints at them for a moment, and Jack thinks of what Jordan had said about bifocals, and doesn’t let himself laugh.

“Ahhhhh,” he says at last, in a creaky sort of voice. “Jordan, my boy! It’s been far too long!”

Jordan embraces the old man with such tenderness that Jack has to look away for a moment. For all Jordan talks with them about his life very openly, Jack has just realized that he has never talked about his own parents. He thinks quietly to himself that he may be seeing Jordan’s real father now, even if that’s not what the legal documents would say.

“Hi, Uncle Ben,” Jordan says warmly. “It really has. We missed you at Thanksgiving this year.”

“This knee of mine,” Uncle Ben says, tapping his right leg as he shakes his head. “Not to worry, though. I’ve nearly worked out the kinks with the nanoparticles. We’re a year or two out from non-invasive mechanical tissue repair, my boy. I’ve got it this time!”

Uncle Ben beckons them both in and closes the door, and then turns to squint at Jack. “And what have you brought me this time, hmm?”

“This is my foster son, Jack Laurence,” Jordan says, putting a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “He’s something of a contemporary of ours, we believe.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Jack says, extending a hand, even as he tries not to beam with pleasure at Jordan’s introduction of him. Foster son sounds a whole lot better than any of the other ways he might have characterized Jack. Uncle Ben shakes his hand with a surprisingly strong grip, and looks him up and down.

“Likewise, likewise,” he says thoughtfully. “And what can I do for you?”

“What you do best,” Jordan says. He smiles at Uncle Ben, mischievous and fond all at once. “Listen, and give advice.”

Uncle Ben nods, and Jack starts in surprise as the old man suddenly has him by one wrist, tugging him gently forward into the depths of his cluttered house.

“Go amuse yourself for a while, then,” he calls back over his shoulder to Jordan. “We’ll let you know when we need you.” And he pulls Jack through a labyrinth of rooms, all filled with inexplicable creations in various stages of completion, until they stop in a room that’s obviously some sort of library. The books are a complete mess, though, in stacks all over the floor and every surface except a well-worn reading chair. Uncle Ben sits down and gestures for Jack to have a seat as well; hesitantly, he finds a solid looking stack of books to perch on.

“So,” he says slowly, squinting at Jack again. “My foster son brings me his foster son to listen to and advise. Jordan hasn’t done this often. Why are you here?” He stops for a moment, and then shakes his head. “No, that’s the wrong question. Who are you?”

“Jack Laurence,” Jack offers. Uncle Ben shakes his head silently, and Jack lets out a long, slow breath. Jordan wouldn’t have brought him here to trick him or trap him, he’s absolutely sure of it. If he thinks Uncle Ben is worth listening to, Jack can’t question that assessment. He closes his eyes for a moment, gathering his courage, and looks the old man in the eyes. “I was named John Laurens,” he says. It’s the first time he’s said the name out loud, and it feels strange in his mouth - strange, but not wrong.

Uncle Ben blinks at him for a long moment. “John Laurens,” he says slowly. “John Laurens? Not Laurens of South Carolina?”

Jack’s mouth falls open. “You know my name?”

The old man stares at him a moment longer, and then laughs - a rich, deep sound. “Well, this is a surprise to have you in my home again, after all this time!”

“You don’t mean we knew each other in the past, do you?” Jack says, still unable to believe it.

“Our acquaintance was short-lived, I’m afraid,” Uncle Ben says, still looking mightily amused. “I thought at first that you were the absolute worst choice for a diplomat I had ever seen. Jordan wants me to advise you now? My boy, I have already wasted many of my best aphorisms on you! _Haste makes waste,_ I told you. _No gains without pains_ , I reminded you many a time. Little good it ever did!”

The sayings were suddenly there in his memory, in a different old voice, one less amused and more cranky, and Jack nearly knocks his stack of books over as he reels at the sudden incursion of memories. It had been in France, when he was nearly setting himself on fire in his frustrations with the slowness and tedium of diplomacy, when he was working as an unwilling aid to-

“Dr. Franklin?” Jack whispers, somewhere on the verge of awe.

Benjamin Franklin. He had known Benjamin Franklin, for a short time - had worked with him on the diplomatic project in France, struggling to get a loan, naval aid, even the basics of weapons and clothing for their poor beleaguered army back in the colonies.

Uncle Ben nods, now looking him over with a different eye - more critical, but also more interested. “You’ve shrunk, my boy. You’re a much more diplomatic presence now, I must say.”

“I never wanted to be a diplomat,” Jack protests. “I knew the whole time I was horrible at it.” And as he says it, he knows it’s true. He had been so pressingly aware of his lack of tact, his temper that would rise so fast, leaving him saying things he’d known were mistakes even as they came out of his mouth. He had never been the correct choice for the position.

“Now, I wouldn’t go that far, young Laurens,” Uncle Ben says thoughtfully. “You were intemperate, inportunate, and entirely too outspoken. You left me some messes to clean up, I will admit.” He gazes at Jack, taking the measure of him. “But you obtained the loan, didn’t you?”

“Did I?” Jack wrinkles his nose. He doesn’t actually remember the outcome of all the negotiations, but the miserable loneliness of his diplomatic memories had made him fairly sure he’d been a failure at that as well. He certainly remembers lectures and scolding from various French officials who had taken offense at his means of diplomacy. He doesn’t remember winning.

Uncle Ben gives a creaky sort of laugh. “More than they were interested in giving, and weapons and supplies into the bargain. Nowhere near enough to satisfy you, young man, but a substantial victory nonetheless.”

“And the military aid?” Jack leans forward, suddenly desperate to know, desperate to hear that he had made a difference this one time. “Did I get them to send ships?”

Uncle Ben regards him for a long moment, eyes twinkling, and finally gives a slow, deep nod. “You did, Laurens. You laid the groundwork, and de Grasse brought the fleet.”

He collapses at the relief of the news, crumpling into a ball that barely manages to stay perched atop the pile of books. It had mattered. It had made a difference.

It takes him a little while to put himself back together, and Uncle Ben waits patiently, watching him. When he’s finally able to look at him again, the old man nods a few times.

“So, then,” he says steadily. “Tell me what has my son so worried about you that he would bring you here, Laurens.”

Jack shrugs. It’s strange, how natural it feels for Franklin to call him Laurens. It isn’t his name - but it is, too, and Franklin has always called him Laurens, and he is remembered by this one man, at least. There’s an elation in that idea that’s hard to handle. Franklin remembers him, and he had done something to help his country.

“I’m not handling flashbacks very well,” he confesses. “I get stressed or triggered, and I can’t keep from going to pieces.”

“And is there a reason Jordan and Marissa cannot help you with these memories?”

“I don’t want to-” Jack hesitates a moment, but he’s already told Franklin so much, he might as well go on. “I don’t want to tell them who I am and what I remember. I’m not proud of any of what I recall.”

Uncle Ben squints at him. “You don’t know who they were, do you?”

“I’m not asking,” Jack says quickly. “It doesn’t really matter. I like them now, and I want them to like me.”

“ _What you seem to be, be really_ ,” Franklin says ponderously. “I always particularly liked that saying.”

“I’m trying to,” Jack protests. “I want to get it right this time.”

“And did you get it so wrong before?” Franklin presses. “We were not long acquainted, but it did not seem to me that you were lacking in accomplishments for such a young man.”

“I was dead before the war ended,” Jack says tonelessly. “I remember leading men to their deaths in several useless charges. I remember recklessness.”

Franklin looks pained. “I don’t recall hearing of that loss, but I am sorry. I would have encouraged you more strongly to stay in the diplomatic service, if I had known.”

“ _Haste makes waste_ ,” Jack recalls. “I remember that one. I should have listened to you.” He sighs. “I don’t know how to move past any of it,” he confesses. “It feels like I died with everything left undone, with nothing to show for it, and it drags me down here and now.”

“How much of your life do you remember?”

Jack thinks for a moment. “Less than two years, so far.”

“And we have already seen that you do not remember all of it. You had forgotten the successes of your ventures in France, had you not?” Jack shifts uncomfortably, but nods. “Do you remember that I suggested you might be my replacement in France? Our methods and approaches were very different, but in the end, I was impressed by your indefatigable efforts and your zeal for the cause.”

“I would have made a terrible diplomat, though,” Jack says certainly. “The short memories I have of my time there are worse than any I have of battles or campaigns.”

“That is because you were so impatient, Laurens,” Franklin says. “But I suspect you have different challenges now - different failings, different strengths. What you must do is learn how to let them balance - the good and bad, the past and present, until you can walk forward.”

“You’re going to say I should research my past, aren’t you?” Jack asks suspiciously. Franklin chuckles.

“No. Nor will I say you must share all of your memories with others.” He looks at Jack intensely again. “But I will say this: you should not judge yourself too harshly, and you should not judge at all without a better understanding. Give it time, Laurens.”

And time is exactly what he doesn’t have. He has to be able to handle this in the next few months. Maybe he isn’t much more patient than John Laurens, after all.

“But what do I do?” he asks plaintively. “How do I get control of these flashbacks?”

“I seem always to be giving you the same advice, Laurens,” Franklin says, looking amused. “ _Haste makes waste. No gains without pains_.” He leans forward. “Face the past - don’t run from it, John.”

“I’m afraid,” Jack admits. He can’t look at Franklin now. “There are things I know I don’t want to remember.”

“And until you do, you will be liable to attack by those memories at the worst possible times,” Franklin tells him. “They will always seek to ambush you in moments of stress or weakness. I taught Jordan this thirty years ago, and he didn’t want to believe me, either.” He sighs, sounding old and tired now. “I will give you one last piece of advice, Laurens. You must make up your mind, and then carry it through. _Resolve to perform what you ought_.” He reaches out and tips Jack’s chin up, so that Jack has to look at him. His eyes are very kind. “ _Perform without fail what you resolve_.”

“All I ever did was fail,” Jack whispers.

“Then change it,” Franklin says, with unquestionable certainty. “You have a second chance. Figure out what you must do, and then do it.”

~~~~~

“Was he able to help you at all?” Jordan asks on their drive home.

Jack thinks for a minute. “I hope so,” he says honestly. If he can do what Uncle Ben advised, he thinks it will have to help. It will disarm his memories, at least, and give them less ability to ambush him - but he’s still afraid. “He gave me a lot to think about.”

“He’s very good at that,” Jordan says fondly.

“He quotes himself an awful lot,” Jack observes, and Jordan can’t help but laugh.

“He certainly does! He’s not the worst I’ve met, though. Someday, try to sit through a dinner with Thomas Jefferson and you’ll see what I mean.”

“Is he around, too?”

“Yes,” Jordan says, “But don’t tell Alex I said so. I have better things to do than spend another lifetime breaking up fights between the two of them.” His face has gone that particular degree of fond and exasperated that Jack only ever sees when he talks about Alex and Laf, and Jack’s heart clenches for a moment.

“You really care about Alex, don’t you?” he asks quietly.

“I care about all of my foster children,” Jordan protests.

“Alex is special, though,” Jack says, and it isn’t a question. “Is he going to be OK, when his really terrible memories arrive?” The question has been preying on him more often recently, as he notices Alex falling into sudden dark moods or going suspiciously still and quiet.

“Yes,” Jordan says firmly. “We’re going to make sure of it, aren’t we?”

There, Jack thinks. That’s one thing he can do.

Franklin had told him, _resolve to perform what you ought_. He doesn’t know everything of who Alexander had been to him, but he knows that part of the burden of guilt that he’s carried with him into this life has something to do with Alexander.

He can, and ought to, help Alex. Whatever it takes, whatever he has to do.

_Perform without fail what you resolve_.

He can’t fail this time.

He isn’t going to fail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, kids. Not too very much to note tonight, except to say that I've been working on outlines for the next few chapters and, well - buckle up. Things are starting to really get serious.
> 
> I've adored reading all the guesses about which potential Ben we might see here, and some of you folks are so much more creative than I am! I couldn't resist the idea of good old Ben Franklin, dispensing his own quotations as life advice. (I am put in mind of 1776's portrayal of Franklin in that regard, with John Adams scolding him about quoting himself. :D) When I read some of the correspondence between Franklin and Laurens, that sealed it for me. You guys, John Laurens did SO MUCH in such a short amount of time. I'm emotionally compromised by considering how much more he could have done if he had more time. 
> 
> Thank you all, continually, for your kindness and support! I couldn't keep doing this without it, I have to tell you. Yours, Kivrin.


	19. nineteen

Jack has decided that he’s going to have made progress towards his goals before Phil comes out for his February visit. He’s asked Marissa for the date and written it on his calendar, circled in red. He’s not going to let all of his goals and progress be determined by others, not any more. He can’t, not if he’s going to do as Uncle Ben suggested.

It’s good to have a purpose again, he realizes quickly, and lets himself lean a bit more into the mindset of the determined soldier who had known how to pursue his goals. Even if he hadn’t ever achieved any of them, he thinks, remembering with a sinking sensation the repeated failures of his scheme to form a regiment of freed slaves to fight in South Carolina.

Uncle Ben had confirmed some of the things he feared - that he had been rash and hotheaded, reckless and intemperate - but he also said John Laurens had achieved some of his aims. Even if Jack can’t remember those victories yet, he’s going to take Uncle Ben at his word, and try to bring some of that to bear on his new goals.

He’s still not going to research his past, and he’s still not thinking about Alexander. He knows he needs to - knows he’ll have to face that knowledge at some point if he’s to make real progress - but he’s procrastinating on that particular front, trying to tackle easier topics first. It’s cowardice, he knows, and he’ll admit it to himself, but he’s not ready to face that particular set of emotional battles yet. He can feel them roiling beneath the surface, sometimes, when he gets too close. He’s not ready yet.

As January stretches on, cold and bitter, Alex’s moods get darker and more worrisome. He drops out of the extracurricular activities he’d been a part of in school, and spends more time staring out into space, hands suspiciously still. It’s so not like Alex to be quiet, to watch the world around him without inserting his opinion and knowledge at every possible moment. He starts sleeping like a normal person, which is maybe the scariest thing of all.

Jordan and Marissa are always watching him; Jack doesn’t think Alex notices, because he’s so often lost in a world of his own, but they keep their eyes on him, fond and worried. Laf does too. Jack catches him taking notes from a truly monumental history book one night, working out some dates on a piece of paper. That would have been unremarkable, except for the way he shoves the book and paper out of sight as soon as he sees Jack enter the room and tries to look innocent.

“Bit of light research?” Jack asks, slumping into a chair opposite him. Alex is already asleep for the night, and it’s not even ten o’clock. Laf watches him for a moment, as if measuring his intent, and then nods.

“About Alexander,” he admits. “Don’t tell him?” Jack mimes zipping his lips closed, and Laf laughs a little. “I am worried for him,” Laf says quietly.

“Me, too.” He doesn’t feel like he has to hide his concern from Laf; they’re all worried, and Jack gives a little shiver as he thinks about how bad Alex’s first bout with this sort of memory retrieval had been, and how bad it might get this time. “What are you looking for in the book, though?”

“What’s coming.” Laf retrieves his notes, a mangled mess of scribbles and lines and names and dates that nobody but himself could ever hope to make sense of. “Based on what he’s told me about what he remembers, and where he is in the timeline of his first life.”

“Do you think it’ll help?” Jack asks, skeptical. “What does it matter if we know what it was? We can’t stop him from remembering.”

“Nor should we.” Sometimes it’s easy to remember that Laf is so much older and wiser, in their particular ways. There’s a solemnity in him, around the corners of his eyes, and Jack knows he has remembered hard things, too. “But if I know what it is that he has lost, I can know better how to support him, I think. He will not want to speak of it.”

“No,” Jack agrees. Alex is almost as good as he is at keeping his mouth shut when he wants to. “Have you found what it is, yet?”

“I have a hunch,” Laf tells him. “If I am right, I think it will only be another week or so before it comes back to him.”

“What should we do to help?" Jack asks. “I want to, you know. He’s done so much for me, and I hate seeing this coming and not being able to stop it.”

Laf shrugs. “There’s not much we can do, I think. Keep him company, help him stay grounded, remind him that he is not in that world now.” He hesitates a moment. “Maman is searching for someone who may be involved, I think, though she will not tell me.”

Jack knows. He still feels bad that she hadn’t found them on their unfortunate road trip weeks back, but she’s been searching even harder since then. She’s often up late at night, sending emails or reading files, or talking on the phone in hushed tones. Marissa looks almost as tired as Alex half the time these days.

Jack knows he can’t pry too much. He’s becoming uncomfortably aware all the time that Alex is a subject too close to his heart, for some reason. He’s not just fond of him; it’s more than that, more even than the attachment he’s come to feel for Marissa and Jordan and Laf. Watching Alex deteriorate is making Jack miserable, swinging between sad helplessness and directionless anger. He can’t ask Laf what’s coming for Alex. He knows himself too well at this point - knows that it would place him at risk of a major flashback himself.

That’s another of the little goals he’s come to set for himself. Jack is working very hard on getting control of his flashbacks, because right now, Alex needs to be the priority for the Wallertons. He needs all the help they can provide, and everyone is aware that he’s going to need more, soon. Jack’s much tamer needs can take a back seat for a while; he can handle them himself, not distracting Marissa and Jordan. It’s good practice for the future, anyway.

Jordan comes into the kitchen while they’re sitting in silence, and gives a little laugh as he spots the book Laf quickly tries to hide again. “I hope you realize that one’s no more reliable than random pages on the Internet, son.”

Laf scowls at the tome. “I will find another, then.”

“Researching Alex, are you?” Jordan asks. He pats Laf’s shoulders with both hands. “Don’t tell him so.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Laf assures his father.

Jordan sighs, and joins both boys at the table. “I expect you’ve both worked out that Alex is likely to go through a rough patch for a little while, here.” They both nod solemnly. “I know you’re both concerned about him, but I assure you, it’s going to be OK. Not fun for him, that’s for sure, and he may well take some of it out on you. I’m going to ask you to be as patient as you can with him - but I’m also going to remind you, right now, not to let him overstep any of your boundaries.”

“What do you mean?” Jack asks.

Jordan grimaces. “For a lot of people, being in pain - physical or emotional - is hard enough that it makes them lash out at others. Alex’s pain is valid, but it shouldn’t be an excuse for him to hurt either of you. And I’m not saying he will!” He stops for a moment, organizing his thoughts. “You won’t do Alex any favors by letting him get away with behavior that hurts either of you. When he’s back to himself, it would only cause him more misery to know that he’d hurt you.”

“You don’t think he’s going to act out physically, do you?” Jack says. It’s not really a question. Alex almost never gets physical. Jordan shakes his head.

“No. Alex doesn’t have to lift a finger to cause a problem, though. He’s always had the sharpest tongue and the cleverest pen I have ever seen.”

“You know who he was,” Laf says suddenly, grinning in recognition. “I didn’t tell you, I know I didn’t! I’ve been keeping the secret!”

“Yes, you have,” Jordan agrees. “Your mother and I are very proud.”

“How long have you known?” Jack asks.

Jordan looks like he’s trying not to laugh. “Honestly, about five minutes after you two showed up. We finally decided there was enough corroboration from things he’s said about a month ago, but it only solidified our belief.”

“He thinks you don’t know,” Laf says conspiratorially.

“I know,” Jordan says, smiling fondly. “He thinks he can keep a secret. Some things really do never change.”

~~~~~

Jack takes to shadowing Alex’s steps at school - even more so, that is. He’d already been enough of a leech, following Alex around as though he couldn’t stand to be apart from him. Now, though, it’s more deliberate. If Alex’s memories come back in the middle of school, in a public location, he’s very worried about the consequences. He hopes, for Alex’s sake, that it doesn’t happen at all - but if it does, Jack is going to be there, covering his back as best as he can.

The problem is, Jack thinks resentfully, Alex doesn’t have a clue how bright he normally shines. The passion and intelligence that flare out from every look he gives, every word he utters, are enough to render Jack speechless some days. Now, though, he is - reduced, maybe. Quieter, more sober, less interested in anything around him. Jack feels like he ought to be wrapping Alex up in a blanket, or maybe a suit of armor, and keeping the whole world away until he’s able to take it all on again, single-handed.

Other students are beginning to notice, and so are the teachers. Their Algebra teacher holds Jack back after class one day near the end of January.

“I don’t mean to pry,” he says carefully. “And I have nothing but the deepest respect for the Wallertons, of course. But is your brother all right? He’s been very quiet the last week or two.”

Jack reels backward a step, shocked beyond measure by the simple question. “Alex isn’t my brother!” he blurts out, feeling - startled, offended, bewildered - he’s not even sure what he feels. Mr. Vance blinks at him in surprise.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend. I just knew you were both with the Wallertons.”

“He’s not my brother,” Jack repeats, feeling as though his brain has been half-liquified. Why is he reacting this strongly? “And he’s fine, really. He’s working through some personal stuff.”

“Well, please remind him that we have an excellent support staff here, if he needs any further assistance,” Mr. Vance says, looking unconvinced. Jack nods and takes off as fast as propriety will allow. He doesn’t like to let Alex out of his sight, now.

They have lunch next, thankfully, and Alex has saved him a seat. Laf is back with his theater friends, even though they aren’t currently working on a show. Jack ponders, glancing over to where he can see Laf laughing, a few tables over. It doesn’t bother him at all to think of Laf as a sort-of brother, even if it’s nothing official or permanent. But Alex?

“What did Vance want?” Alex asks. He’s picking at his food, forcing grim bites into his mouth with no sign of enjoyment - but Alex never, never allows food to go to waste.

“I’m never going to be a mathematician,” Jack says, as if that’s an answer. He isn’t, that’s for sure, but he’s not about to tell Alex their teacher has noticed his downcast mood. Alex snorts.

“Amazing. We’ve finally found something you’re not good at.”

“You spend, like, half our lives telling me all the things I’m not good at,” Jack points out. There’s no heat to it. Alex is all noise and fury, signifying nothing. He complains because he cares.

“Yes, but you know damn well I don’t mean it,” Alex says tiredly. Case in point. He forces down another bite of overcooked pasta, and Jack winces a little at the sight. “Damn,” Alex whispers, and rubs his temples.

“Headache?” Jack asks. Alex just nods. “Natural, or memory-based?”

“Probably the latter,” Alex says, his voice little more than a groan. “Feels like it wants to fly apart.”

“Call Jordan and get him to take you home,” Jack suggests. “You never take sick days. You’ll be fine to miss half a day.”

Alex shakes his head, and looks like he regrets it. “No. Last thing I want is Jordan and Marissa getting any more freaked out about me. I can hold out a few more hours.”

“They care about you. Is that such a bad thing?” Jack can’t help it if he sounds a little peevish.

“No, it’s fine for now,” Alex says. He makes himself keep eating. “But once these memories break, I don’t know what they’re going to do. I don’t want to give them any more reason to panic about it than I have to.”

“They just want to help,” Jack points out. He pokes at his own food, but he has no appetite.

“Everyone always just wants to help,” Alex says, tired and bitter. “They helped you right into a mental hospital, didn’t they?”

“That wasn’t Marissa’s fault.”

“Never said it was.” Alex forces down the last bite off his plate, looking relieved. “But sometimes they don’t know what else to do with us, and society will help us vanish into those places to get us out of the way.”

Jack stops and considers Alex for a moment. He’s so much healthier looking now than he was when they’d first met - but today he looks almost frail, in a too-large sweatshirt that threatens to eat him alive.

“Are you worried you’ll end up back there?” Jack asks, keeping his voice low. Alex shrugs.

“Maybe. I don’t know how they’ll handle it, when I lose it.” He doesn’t specify what he’ll lose, but Jack can guess - control, sanity, his grip on the present. “Not that I’ll stay, if they try to put me there. I’ll be gone in no time.”

“Alex,” Jack protests. “There’s absolutely no way the Wallertons will let you wind up there again! Marissa practically disemboweled them for locking me up - can you imagine what she and Jordan would do to keep you out of there?”

Alex glances up at him with quick, darting looks, as if seeking consolation, but afraid to look for too long. “You think?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Jack says. He’s trying not to be mad at Alex, who really doesn’t deserve it right now, but it’s a struggle. “They never, never would. It doesn’t matter what happens, they wouldn’t let you wind up there.”

“But if someone tried,” Alex says. His voice is very thin, like paper. “You wouldn’t let them?”

“Never.” Jack reaches out and grabs Alex’s forearm, giving a reassuring squeeze. “Never.”

Alex finally meets his eyes properly and holds his gaze for a long moment, before nodding.

Jack doesn’t tell the Wallertons about Alex’s concerns, but he spends a little extra time that night forcing himself to reach deeper into his own memories, bringing up images of Yorktown and the Combahee, the glacier that had almost killed him on the passage to France, the gleam of moonlight on muskets and bayonets. None of it is new anymore, and the images are losing some of their power to unsettle him. He’s trying.

~~~~~

Phil comes to visit less than a week into February; everyone is on edge.

They can all sense that Alex is on the very brink of some terrible precipice. Marissa has hardly slept in a week, researching and tracking down leads that never seem to go anywhere; Laf can’t keep himself still for more than two minutes, pacing the floors at all hours; Jordan watches over Alex all the time when he’s at home, looking at him with such sadness that Jack has to look away.

Jack hasn’t made as much progress as he wanted, but he is doing better. The last few weeks, he’s managed to coax more memories out of hiding gently, rather than allowing them to stab him in the back. He’s gotten through almost two weeks of daily, awkward visits with his parents without any flashbacks at all, though he’s picked up the bad habit of biting his nails in nervous frustration. He lets his mother lead the conversations, and Jack and his father don’t do much speaking. It works better.

He’s not there yet, but he’s starting to feel like he may have a chance at getting control of his flashbacks, which gives him a good deal more freedom to move through the world. He tries not to let himself wonder if there are more dark ambushes waiting in the past for him; watching Alex face it with as much bravery as he can muster is bad enough.

The Wallertons have arranged their schedules so they can both be there for the meeting. Phil is as timely and pleasant as ever, though he looks at Alex with a hint of concern.

“I can’t believe how the time flies,” Phil chuckles as he opens his notebook. “Five months here already? How is that even possible?” Alex doesn’t react, but Jack sees the fleeting glance Marissa and Jordan exchange - excitement and worry, hope and fear and trepidation all at once. “Gentlemen, would you rather have this conversation in private?”

“They can stay,” Alex says quietly, glancing at the Wallertons with something like longing. Jack nods agreement.

Phil takes them through the customary questions, checking in on their progress and academics and health and well-being. When he goes to ask Alex a question about permanency, though, Jordan holds up a hand to stop him.

“Phil, if you don’t mind, I think this isn’t the right time to discuss it.” Jordan looks at his foster son with more than a hint of worry; Alex isn’t even protesting having been cut off. “Alex is having a difficult time with a memory retrieval right now, and I don’t think it’s fair to him to add any more emotional pressure of any kind. Can this wait for a later check-in?”

“Absolutely,” Phil agrees, and Alex gives Jordan the deepest, most silent look of thanks Jack can imagine. “Well, then, Jack! How have your visits with your parents been going?”

“Fine, thanks,” Jack says. He’s not going to let this be stressful for Alex, or anyone else. “My mother says to inform you that she’s made every scheduled visitation this past month.”

“And they’ve done their online trainings, too,” Phil says, sounding impressed. “Excellent. Forward progress is always a positive sign. Now, have you made any progress in your therapeutic work?”

“Some,” Jack says honestly. “I’m not having nearly as much trouble with flashbacks as I was.” He glances over at Alex out of pure habit, expecting him to protest just for the sake of a good argument, but Alex looks like he’s barely keeping himself in the present. They need to wrap this meeting up. “I’m getting better,” he declares. Phil nods, and makes a note.

“Excellent! Now, unless either of you has anything you wish to bring up, I’m going to ask you to let me talk to Jordan and Marissa for a little bit.” They’re being dismissed. Jack is OK with that, because Alex doesn’t need another minute of this. The memories are going to come back, they all know it - but it doesn’t have to happen now, in front of the social worker. Jack has to nudge Alex’s leg with his foot to get him to wake up and pay attention.

Alex continues up the stairs without hesitation as soon as they leave the living room, probably going to his room. He’s spending a lot more time there, these days. Jack starts to follow him, and then hesitates, torn.

He still doesn’t believe in eavesdropping. It’s not proper or respectful, and he does respect the Wallertons, very much. But he’s also a soldier, and a man of war, and he knows the value of good intelligence more than most. He needs accurate information to make informed decisions. He fights himself for a long moment, and John Laurens wins, this time. He keeps to the stairs, out of sight, but where he can hear every word from the living room.

“I’m sorry Alex is struggling so much,” Phil is saying.

“So are we,” Marissa says softly. “It’s so hard to watch. I wish there were more we could do to help.”

“Trust me, you’re doing more than you think,” Phil assures them. “You’re the first home he’s ever willingly remained in more than a month. I don’t know what your secret is, but keep it up!”

“Any word on next steps on Alex’s case?” Jordan asks. “He’s about to be seventeen, you know, and I’d rather not have him thinking about his future without a guarantee of permanency.”

“Well, that’s very much up to you,” Phil tells them. Jack can hear him flipping through papers. “Next month will be their six month review. At that time, Alex’s case goals can begin to move forward. If you’re interested in adopting him, we can start proceedings at that point.”

“We are, if he’ll have us,” Marissa says. Jack can hear the joy in her voice, but also uncertainty. “We want him to be secure, and we’re more than happy to make a commitment to him.”

“Fantastic,” Phil says. “I wish all of our homes were like yours.” He flips through a few more pages, makes a few notes.

“What about Jack?” Jordan asks, and Jack has to keep himself from reacting.

“Well, assuming his parents continue to follow their plan, and he continues to make progress, I see no reason why we can’t begin to make arrangements for reunification at next month’s meeting.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Marissa asks, more sharp than usual. “I’m not sure his parents are making as much progress as we would like.”

Phil sighs. “I know. They’re hardly ideal candidates for such a case, but they are his parents, after all. We don’t have unlimited powers to keep families apart without good cause, and they are working their plan now and doing everything we’ve asked. Has Jack expressed any concerns about going home?’

“At Christmas he did,” Marissa says. “He didn’t want to go back to the house at all, and told me he wanted to go home - here, that is.”

“Hmmm.” Phil makes more notes. “That’s something to keep an eye on. Of course, that was immediately following a fairly significant trauma and hospitalization, so I don’t know how much weight we should place on that. I’ll interview him far more thoroughly next month, of course, when we’re making the determination.”

“Please do,” Jordan says firmly. “Jack can be a bit difficult to get a solid answer out of, and I’m afraid he sometimes would rather give an answer that will make others happy rather than himself.”

“Understood,” Phil says. Jack writhes in silent embarrassment, but it’s no more than he deserves for eavesdropping. Again. “And if he isn’t ready to return home yet, are you prepared to continue to provide a placement for him?”

“Of course!” Marissa exclaims, at the same time that Jordan rumbles, “I hate that you even have to ask, Phil.”

It feels an awful lot like being wanted. Jack doesn’t know what to do with that.

“We’d keep him forever if we could,” Marissa says, and Jack has to sit down hard on the stair behind him.

Phil makes a worried little noise. “You do realize, of course, that you’re only permitted one more Second-Timer adoption?”

“We know,” Jordan says quietly.

“Right,” Phil says. He doesn’t sound convinced. “I know it seems draconian, limiting even the most wonderful families to two, but you understand how important it is to keep the lines of relationship from being entirely muddled. We can’t have everyone belonging to the same three families, can we?” He chuckles a little; the Wallertons don’t. “Well, it doesn’t sound like it will be a problem for you, anyway. Jack goes home, Alex gets adopted here, everyone gets their happy ending.”

“We can hope so,” Marissa says, her voice low and sober.

Jack can’t listen anymore. He finds his feet and creeps quietly up the stairs, pausing at the top to collect his thoughts.

They don’t have room for both of them.

He and Alex are apparently fine as foster kids, but Jordan and Marissa can’t make them both family, even if he’s bold enough to assume that they would want to. And there’s no question as to who they’ll keep, even if Phil weren’t already halfway to writing up his reunification paperwork already.

He buries his face in his hands for a moment, just a moment, breathing deep. It’s fine. He can handle ambushes and fevers and icebergs and diplomacy. He can handle blood on his hands, and the screams of the dying in his ears. He can handle not being chosen.

He rubs at his eyes fiercely and makes himself move down the hallway to his bedroom, one step at a time. He’s handled bad news before; he’s been the one not chosen. He’s fine.

Jack hesitates outside Alex’s door, wanting to check in on him one more time before he goes and lets himself fall apart for a little bit. He knocks gently on the door, and there is no answer. He knocks again.

“Alex?” Jack calls quietly. “You ok?” Waiting a moment doesn’t produce an answer, and he’s starting to get nervous. “Alex, I’m coming in.” He waits just a moment longer, and Alex offers no objection, so Jack shoves the door open.

Alex is sitting at his desk, staring down at the surface with the blankest, most awful expression Jack has ever seen. It is absolute devastation, written across his features in lines of pain and sorrow that hurt to even look upon. “Alex?” Jack whispers.

Alex doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. Jack creeps forward, afraid of startling him, until he’s close enough to see what Alex is looking at.

It’s a piece of paper that Alex has been writing on. He’s picked up Jack’s habit of messing around with quill pens recently, and from the size of the ink blot in the middle of the page, obscuring many of the words, Jack can tell he’s been writing with one today. Jack looks over Alex’s shoulder, trying to make out the words that are still legible.

_On Tuesday the 27th, my son was killed in a gunfight_

_the war was already over_

_His dream_

_dies with him._

Alex is staring at the words he has written with eyes that clearly see another world. His hands are shaking.

“Oh, Alex,” Jack whispers. It looks like the waiting is over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey kids. Do you know what tomorrow is? 
> 
> I'll just be over here sobbing, thanks.


	20. twenty

“Alex,” Jack says. He doesn’t touch him. “Alex!”

Alex is unresponsive. If it weren’t for the shaky rhythm of his breathing and the trembling of his hands, it would be hard to say if he was living or a statue. His eyes are fixed on the page before him, and his fingers, stained with ink, are still posed as if holding a quill that has fallen, unseen, to the page.

Jack doesn’t know what to do. He knows what they’ve done for him that has helped, but he isn’t Alex, and Alex had been so scared of whatever was coming. This is something far bigger and worse than anything Jack has dealt with in his short time as a Second-Timer. He doesn’t dare touch Alex or try to shake him awake, but he doesn’t feel OK just letting him sit there, breath a ragged hair away from sobs, and not do anything.

He darts from the room. “Jordan!” Jack yells, running for the head of the stairs. “Marissa! It’s Alex!” He’s never yelled in the house before, not properly, and his voice sounds strange and dangerous as it reverberates off the walls. “Come quick!”

He has time, waiting in the endless seconds before they make it to the stairs, to think about whether he’s overreacting. Alex isn’t bleeding or choking; there’s no physical danger.

But he knows a fraction of the grief Alex has described, and he’s felt that suffocating pull downward into memories he could not handle, and he cannot let Alex face it alone. When he sees the Wallertons headed for the stairs, he dashes back to Alex’s room, as if he might have vanished in the time Jack wasn’t looking.

“They’re coming,” he says uselessly. “We’re all here. You aren’t alone.”

Alex doesn’t even seem to hear him.

“What happened?” Jordan demands, making his way straight to Alex’s side, but he, too, keeps his hands to himself.

“I just found him like this,” Jack says. He’s surprised at the quality of his own voice. He sounds like he’s the one on the brink of tears. “I think he was writing, and I don’t know if he can even hear me.”

“Maybe not, but he’ll know we’re here,” Marissa says soothingly. She wraps an arm around Jack’s shoulders, as though he’s the one in distress. “We knew it was coming, and so did he. At least it won’t have been a complete shock this time.”

“Bad enough as it is,” Jordan mutters. He’s crouched down to put himself on a level with Alex’s face, and is watching him closely. “Alex, son. Can you hear me?”

That’s the scariest moment, because Alex doesn’t respond, doesn’t correct Jordan or make a face at him or even grimace. He just sits there, hardly blinking, staring at the words that are disappearing beneath the slowly expanding ink blot on the page.

“What do we do?” Jack whispers. Marissa squeezes him a little tighter.

“Don’t panic, sweetheart. He’s been through this before, and he had warning. He’s going to be OK.”

Phil has followed them up, and peeks through the door. “I couldn’t help but be concerned,” he says. “Is everything all right?”

“Big memory retrieval,” Jordan says, not getting up from his crouch. “It’s a fairly significant trauma from his first life.” He glances at the paper on his desk, frowning at the words, and then nods sadly. “It’s what we thought,” he says to Marissa.

“Poor boy,” she says. Turning to Phil, she says, “I imagine Alex is in for a rough time, given what we know, but I don’t expect to need to take any emergency measures.”

Phil frowns. “Well, I’ll set up a closer monitoring protocol for the next few weeks. Weekly check-ins, that sort of thing. You know the drill.”

“Of course,” Jordan says, but all of his attention is on Alex. “We’re definitely dealing with shock. I’d say it was triggered by writing, which isn’t as bad as it could be. We’re not looking at any physical symptoms yet.”

“I’ll get out of your way and let you deal,” Phil says. “I know this isn’t your first time helping kids through this. Do remember we have further resources if you need them, though. I’ll give you a call tomorrow and see how he’s doing.”

“Thanks,” Marissa says, and Phil shows himself out. “You or me?” she asks Jordan.

“I’ll take the first shift,” he says, smiling sadly at her. He stands and grabs another chair, pulling it closer, then snags the quilt off Alex’s bed and starts to drape it gently around his shoulders. “Want to bring some of that tea he likes?”

“Sure thing,” she says, and moves toward the door, encouraging Jack to come along with her. “Back in a minute, Alex.”

“What are we supposed to do?” Jack asks, as soon as they’re out of the room. “You’re not going to give him sedatives or anything, right?”

Marissa stops and eyes him thoughtfully for a moment, then continues down to the kitchen, and Jack trails behind her. He doesn’t know what else to do. “Of course we won’t. We never would, Jack, you must know that.”

“I just wanted to be sure,” he mutters. He doesn’t say that Alex had doubted them. He stands by the table as Marissa starts making tea, rubbing at a particularly dark spot in the wood, needing something to do with his hands.

“I know,” she says, and smiles at him. “We really have handled this before. It looks scary, but we’re going to make sure he gets through it. What you need to do, sweetheart, is not worry yourself too much. Jordan and I have been through this, both for ourselves and as foster parents; we’re trained to help Alex through this safely.” She sets the kettle on to boil and drops a tea bag in Alex’s favorite green mug. “I don’t want you or Laf to stress yourselves too much, although I know you’re worried, too. It’s not your job.”

“But-” Jack says, feeling the need to argue overcome the need to agree, for once. “I want to help. He’s helped me!”

“I know, and I’m not saying you can’t.” She keeps moving, tidying away various things in the kitchen and spooning sugar into the mug, knowing how Alex likes it. “I’m just saying you’re not the authority figures here. None of this falls on your shoulders, and I don’t want you taking on more stress than you can handle. You and Laf have your own lives and issues to work on, and I’m afraid Jordan and I might be a little less available than usual, depending on how things go.”

He nods, and makes a mental note to be sure not to bother them until Alex is well and whole again.

“Jordan and I usually take shifts sitting with our kids until they’re through the worst of it,” Marissa continues. “We’ll make sure he isn’t alone, that he’s safe and warm and that he knows we’re there. For the first while, there isn’t much more we can do. Once he’s through the initial shock, there’s more to be done, and we can start helping him move forward.”

But Alex doesn’t get through the initial shock - not that day, or the next. He moves like a zombie when encouraged to do so; he’ll eat and drink what’s put in front of him, and lie down to sleep when he’s supposed to, but it’s like he’s become an empty shell. Jack tries not to get scared as he goes on and on just existing - but he sees the looks Jordan and Marissa are sharing when they trade off looking after Alex, and he knows they’re getting worried, too.

Jack and Laf do their best to help. They take over cooking and the basic chores, as best they can, to make sure the adults can focus on Alex. The food isn’t amazing, and they wind up accidentally shrinking half of their wardrobes with the wrong dryer settings, but it’s not the end of the world, and Jordan and Marissa are so grateful for the help that it’s all worthwhile.

Jack’s room is next to Alex’s, so he hears their voices at night, talking to him in soothing rhythms, assuring him he isn’t alone when he cries out in his sleep. It’s the only time he makes a sound, now, and Jack doesn’t want to think about what he’s dreaming, based on the way Alex screams. Jordan reads to him, sometimes, and Marissa sings, and all any of them can do is hope that some of it is getting through, that Alex knows he’s not alone and they aren’t giving up on him.

School is out of the question, obviously. The Wallertons have Phil contact the school directly and let them know Alex is out on a medical issue, so there aren’t any awkward questions from that area. Jack gets the impression that they basically believe Alex has been diagnosed with cancer or something from the way teachers look at him and Laf sympathetically, or ask them to pass along their good wishes. He would, but it doesn’t seem like it would matter. Alex isn’t hearing any of it.

Jack and Laf spend time with him too, of course. Jack takes his art supplies in and sits on the floor next to Alex’s bed. He can’t find the words to say much, but he hopes Alex knows he’s there. He narrates what he’s doing, sometimes, or mocks his own artistic failings, but the words sound so wrong in the silence.

Alex is not meant to be silent.

Laf has no problem filling the silence, and talks at Alex in effervescent French. For all that Jordan had said Jack had talked in French, he can’t remember more than a few random words, and Laf’s stream of conversation is nothing more than cheerful noise to him.

It’s a full week before anything changes, and Jack has actually caught the Wallertons exchanging whispered words about whether they’ll need to call in extra help. He places himself on sentinel duty for a while after that, making sure there’s no chance they’ll try to call an ambulance or take Alex away, but there’s never any hint of that.

Phil comes by at the end of the week to check in, and looks concerned at the lack of progress. The Wallertons assure him they have it under control. He pulls Jack aside before he leaves, speaking in hushed tones, as if Alex were sleeping.

“I’ve had a few calls from your mother this week. She says you haven’t been attending the scheduled visitations?”

Jack blinks at him. He literally hasn’t spent a single brain cell on thinking about his parents, given the situation. “We’ve been kind of busy,” he says, gesturing in the vague direction of Alex’s room.

“I understand your concern, and that the normal routines around here have been disturbed, but it’s not appropriate for you to drop out of contact with your family,” Phil says, almost scolding him. “The Wallertons are meant to be assuring that you attend your scheduled visits. I understand that they are more taxed than usual right now, but I admit I’m surprised that they haven’t been keeping up with this.”

“It’s not their fault,” Jack says quickly. “I didn’t tell them I wasn’t making my visits. I’ll do better, I promise.”

And then he has to keep that promise, because he can’t go getting Jordan and Marissa in trouble when they’ve got Alex to look after. He makes himself take the call in his room that night at the scheduled time, and doesn’t argue back as his mother scolds him for the missing visits.

“It’s just rude, Jack! I don’t know where I went wrong with you. I thought I’d taught you manners, and some consideration for others!” He doesn’t say what he wants to, though it’s a struggle to keep his mouth shut. She finally winds down, and shakes her head. “At least they won’t count against us, as it’s your side who missed the appointments. I suppose it could have been worse.”

He tries to make himself talk about school and assignments, and the February weather, and whatever else his mother brings up, but his mind is wandering to Alex all the time, wanting to go and check on him, hoping this might be the night that something changes. He’s almost tuned her out entirely, when something gets through.

“...so Phil says we can finally start to make plans! It’s such a relief, being almost done with all of this nonsense.”

“Nonsense?” Jack asks, and his mother waves a dismissive hand.

“Whatever you want to call it, dear. I call it a major headache! We’ve had to postpone our vacation plans twice already. We’re going to stay in the country this year, for a change. Your father had the wonderful idea of going on a bit of a golfing tour! We’ll be traveling around to some of the very best - and I’m doing my research, of course, because where there’s golfing, there are generally antique stores! Everyone wins!” She beams at him.

“Oh,” he says. He cannot imagine caring less. “That sounds nice. When are you leaving?”

“That’s what I was just saying,” she says, losing the smile. “Weren’t you listening? We’ll set off as soon as you get back next month!”

It’s like being hit with a bucket of cold water, and it focuses his attention incredibly. “That’s not set in stone or anything! I might not be ready to come home yet!”

She rolls her eyes. “Let me guess - some pretty girl up there has caught your eye, and you’re wanting to stay longer? This isn’t a social call, Jack. You’ve been doing this reincarnation thing quite long enough, I think. It’s time to get back to normal.”

For this, he’s willing to fight. He sets his jaw and draws in a deep breath.

“Mom,” he says firmly. “I’m not ready to come home yet. I’m still at too great a risk of major flashbacks to leave the supports they have in place here.”

”You know, your father has read all sorts of new studies about this silly condition, if that’s what we’re calling it. He says it’s being greatly exaggerated by the media, dear,” she says, looking at something on her phone. “Maybe there’s nothing so wrong with you after all!” She beams at him again, and Jack thinks he’s going to be sick.

“There isn’t anything wrong with me.” He doesn’t let himself sound angry, even though he’s starting to feel it in his hands, in his forehead, a pulsing current of fury that wants to break free. “Do you know what can happen to us, mom? There’s another boy here - my friend - who hasn’t so much as spoken in a week! He’s had some kind of horrible memory come back, and he’s totally shut down, not able to function. That could be me, out of the blue, any day.”

“Oh, don’t worry yourself so much, Jack,” she says patronizingly. “I’ve got the medications all worked out with the doctors already, so if you wind up in a state, we’ll be prepared. I’m surprised that group home of yours doesn’t know how to treat this condition!”

“It’s not a group home,” he snaps, still clinging to the threads of his sanity, “and they do know what to do. They know the medications are a terrible idea, and that they only make things worse! My foster parents have been caring for Alex around the clock! It would be far easier to drug him, of course, but they know how to actually help.” He bites his tongue before he can add anything even more pointed.

“All the more reason for you to come home,” she says, unmoved by his words. “If this other boy is so disturbed that he requires around the clock care, they have no business trying to look after you as well!”

That stops him cold. She always knows exactly how to take him out at the knees, somehow. “He’s not disturbed,” Jack protests, but only because he can’t formulate an objection to her larger point.

“Don’t quibble, Jack, you know what I mean. How are those people supposed to look after you and deal with all of your needs and problems if they have this other boy to care for? Surely they need the time and resources for a child who really needs help? Phil tells us you’re doing very well these days.” She’s watching him shrewdly, and he can’t think of a response. She sighs. “Very well, why don’t you go and do whatever is so much more important to you than spending time with your own mother?”

“I’m not,” he protests, but she’s not listening.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, and I hope you’ll have come to your senses by then.” She signs off without really saying goodbye, and he knows he’s annoyed her.

She’s done a bit more than annoy him in return. He can’t quite put her words out of his head, even as he goes about the rest of his evening routine.

As much as he hates to admit it, she has a point. The Wallertons are clearly stretched to their limits at the moment. Marissa and Jordan have both taken time off from work to help Alex, and even though they’re sharing the job, they both look tired and stressed all the time right now.

He already knows they don’t have room for both of them, and he already knows which of them is a keeper. Maybe he isn’t doing Alex any favors sticking around.

~~~~~

Alex starts talking again the next day, out of the blue. It’s a Saturday, freezing and miserable outside but warm and lovely as ever indoors, and Laf has been hanging out in Alex’s room chattering away while Marissa works on some of her files and keeps an eye on Alex. Jack is next door, trying to make himself do the least interesting homework on the planet, when he suddenly hears Alex’s voice for the first time in more than a week. His papers go flying everywhere as he launches himself at the door, and manages to trip over his own feet.

By the time he gets to Alex’s door, Alex is out of bed, on his feet, and talking at full speed to a delighted, if puzzled-looking, Laf. The last week might have been a dream for all Alex shows any sign of it. He’s talking again, gesticulating with sharp, pointed gestures, and doesn’t look like he’s ever kept his mouth shut a day in his life. It’s one of the best sights Jack has ever seen.

But then the sound starts to filter through the haze of excitement, and he finds himself frowning - matching Marissa’s expression. Alex is speaking French - rapid-fire, impassioned French that Jack has about as much chance of comprehending as he does successfully drinking from a firehose. Laf can’t get a word in edgewise, until Alex shoves past him and sits at his desk, already pulling out paper and quill.

“Alex?” Marissa says, moving within arm’s reach. “How are you feeling?”

He mutters something in French, distracted-sounding, and she and Jack both look to Laf, who now looks just bewildered.

“He says he has so much work to do,” Laf translates. “He was telling me of some of the projects he’s working on - legal briefs and preparations for the Continental Congress?” He looks at Marissa, clearly seeking solace. “What is going on?”

“Could you go get your father, sweetheart?” Marissa asks, instead of answering, and Laf takes off without another word. Jack hopes he doesn’t kill himself falling down the stairs. He and Marissa watch Alex for a moment; he hasn’t stopped writing for a second since he picked up the pen.

“He’s distracting himself with work,” Jack whispers. “He told me once that’s what he had done - past him, I mean, to keep himself from thinking about the hard things.”

“I know,” Marissa says. Her arms are folded tightly, as though she’s holding herself together, and she looks desperately unhappy. “I think it’s a big part of why this has all been so devastating for him. He didn’t handle it the first time, and so now it’s amplified, even more difficult to process and integrate.” Alex scribbles on, taking as little notice of them as he has for the past week. He mutters to himself in more of the incomprehensible French, as if talking through the points of what he’s writing; his pen never stops moving.

Jordan and Laf are back in a moment, and Marissa explains what had happened out in the hallway, while she and Jordan both watch Alex warily from outside the door.

“Why French?” Jack asks Laf. It’s a rhetorical question, but Laf answers anyway.

“I am not sure, except that he and I have been speaking French together a great deal recently, as we used to do in the past. Perhaps it is familiar to him in both lives, and so it is easier?” It’s a guess, but it makes as much sense as anything Jack can come up with.

Jordan goes over and tries to talk to Alex, but he gets the same annoyed brush-off that Marissa had, with the same sort of annoyed murmur Jack can’t comprehend.

“He says he cannot stop,” Laf reports. “He is afraid he is running out of time.”

And that is the start of the second phase of Alex’s grieving, or whatever he might call it, if he were speaking.

He’s practically the opposite of the catatonic wreck he had been for a week. Alex is back to his normal insomniac mania, though worse than ever. He writes non-stop, until sometimes the Wallertons have to pry the pen from his hands because he’s hurting himself. He’s interacting with the world again - at least to the degree that he’s making his own coffee, and drinking far too much of it, and he’s far from silent.

That’s a good thing, Jack tells himself. It really is. It just doesn’t do anyone but Laf much good, because he will not speak anything but French. He moves as if steam-powered, and talks for hours at a time, though Jack has a sense that he’s not really speaking to anyone who is present. Laf gets tired of translating political diatribes and narratives of the executions of traitors and letters - endless, tireless letters, all in effortless French that darts as easily from his pen as from his mouth.

He’s even harder to keep up with, this way, and no easier to communicate with. Jack sees, horrified, a hint of why his parents had found themselves unable to cope, if this was anything like what had happened when Alex was twelve. He seems poised on the brink of insanity. Marissa and Jordan are literal saints, he thinks, watching them look after Alex with unending patience and compassion, even when he’s ranting and raving at the top of his lungs, or feeding whole stacks of handwritten notes into the fire just to watch them burn.

The only one he ever actually talks to is Laf, and Laf says there’s little sense in anything he’s saying. “He speaks only of the past,” Laf tells them, looking exhausted. “He will talk of battles and tactics, of elections and political parties, but he will not answer any questions I ask.”

The new phase stretches on for a week, and then into a second, and nobody ever even so much as hints that they need help, but the tension is growing, and everyone is getting tired. Laf is their only translator, and Jordan and Marissa are still juggling shifts with Alex along with working as much as they can from home. All Jack can do is try to stay out of the way. Alex wants nothing to do with him, any more than the rest of them, and doesn’t seem to notice his presence when Jack does try to talk to him or keep him company.

Phil comes again and makes notes on Alex’s progress, and looks more concerned than ever. Jack, who has been doing his duty and making all of his required meetings with his parents, warrants little more than a nod and a clap on the shoulder, which is as it should be.

Jack’s mother pressures him every day to tell Phil that he’s ready to come home, and he’s getting twitchy about it in a way that he really can’t afford to. He cannot have a major flashback right now, not when Alex is in such a state, not when the Wallertons are all on the brink of exhaustion trying to help and support him. He does all the exercises he knows, faces every bit of the past he feels he can risk, and tries his best to hold off any new memories, because there cannot be two of them suffering from memory retrievals at the same time.

He finds Marissa crying one day, and doesn’t have a clue what to say. She manages to smile at him, even through tears.

“Sweetheart, it’s OK. It’s not a bad thing to express emotions, you know? I’m fine, really. I’m just sad that there isn’t more we can do for Alex right now. It’s hard to watch him go through this.”

“It wouldn’t help to talk to him about what he remembers, would it?” Jack asks. “I know Laf and Jordan had theories about the cause.”

Marissa shakes her head. “Afraid not. He’ll talk when he’s ready, and if we push too hard before that, we could do more harm than good.” She wipes her eyes and blows her nose, and Jack watches her build herself back up for another go at supporting Alex.

It finally comes to a head almost three weeks in, on an evening when they’ve convinced Alex to come down to the kitchen with his writing so they can at least all be together, trying to make dinner. Jack is making a salad while Laf starts rice on the stovetop. They’ll throw chicken in the oven, hope it all comes out at about the same time, and call it good. Nobody ever accused them of being great chefs, but everyone is still being fed, and it’s a damn sight better than most Army rations that John remembered. Marissa is in the office trying to catch up on some work, and Jordan is sitting at the table next to Alex, staring sightlessly into space over a cup of coffee that contains way too much caffeine for this hour.

All of a sudden, Alex is on his feet at Laf’s side, staring into the pot like it’s killed his best friend. Laf asks a quiet question, obviously not expecting an answer, and Alex just stares at the rice, his eyes so dark and distant that he hardly looks human.

“For this?” he finally says - and it’s English, it’s in English, in his normal voice. Jack drops his knife on the floor, barely missing his toes, and Jordan is on his feet in an instant.

“Alex?” Jordan asks quietly, and Alex whirls around, transferring that stare to him, unblinking.

“Your Excellency,” he says formally, and Jordan takes a step backward, mouth falling open in surprise.

“Alex,” he says again, once he’s caught his breath. “What’s happened?”

Alex just stares at him, and that horrible anguished look creeps back over his face, as if he’s crumbling from the inside out.

“He’s dead, sir.” The words come out as little more than a choked-out cry, “They had not yet received word the war was over.”

“I know.” Jack has never seen Jordan quite so weary, or so sad. He moves towards Alex, putting a hand out to him slowly, and placing it on his shoulder when Alex doesn’t move away. “I know.”

“No,” Alex says, shaking his head. He looks so lost that Jack would bet anything that he doesn’t know when he is, or where. “You don’t understand, sir. He’s dead.”

“I know.” Jordan grabs Alex’s other shoulder as well, as Alex sways so suddenly and violently that it looks like he’s about to fall. “I’m sorry, son.”

And Jack watches Alex _break_ , shattering into a thousand pieces before their eyes. He falls forward into Jordan, crashing against him with clenched fists, burying his face as a cry of loss escapes him. Jordan wraps his arms around him, rocking slightly back and forth, and murmuring words into the top of Alex’s hair. He thinks they both may be crying.

Laf creeps over and tugs Jack away by one arm, pulling him out of the kitchen in silence. “This is more important than the food,” Laf whispers. “I’m going to tell Marissa what has happened.” He’s gone in an instant, and Jack is standing awkwardly in the middle of the living room, trying not to let himself think about Alex’s face and the devastation in his voice. He’s so glad Jordan is there, managing to be exactly what Alex needs.

A minute later, Marissa rushes past, into the kitchen, and Jack hears a murmur of conversation that he can’t make out, but it’s conversation now, English words back and forth, and Alex is talking to them again for the first time in three weeks, and Jack can breathe again. He collapses onto the sofa, worn out, although it’s not like he has any right to be. He’s the one among the whole group who hasn’t been doing the work.

His mother is right, he thinks tiredly, staring at the flickering flames in the fireplace. It’s not over for Alex, and he’s still going to need the Wallertons’ time and attention.

He thinks of Uncle Ben’s advice, and how he had promised himself he was going to help Alex. He thinks of one spot available with the Wallertons, and how neatly Jordan and Marissa and Laf and Alex will fit together. He wonders how much longer he can keep his own memories under control, before he becomes a distraction no-one can afford at the moment.

“Perform without fail what you resolve,” Jack whispers to himself. It’s not so much different than preparing himself for battle, really. At least now he has a purpose, and a clarity of vision.

He has to tell Phil it’s time for him to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, darlings. I seem to be awash in emotions tonight. I blame the 27th of August. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for being with me on this journey! I honestly am not sure yet exactly how much farther we have to go; this story keeps revealing its shape to me as I write, and I don't know the endpoint yet. I think I'll know when I get there, though. You are all my very favorites. You know the unalterable sentiments of your affectionate - Kivrin.


	21. twenty-one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potential trigger warning for suicidal ideation, and also for quite heavy angst at points. Look after yourselves, kiddos.

Jack hates everything. 

Well, not everything, and that’s most of the problem.

He loves the Wallertons. He can admit it, now, because it doesn’t matter anymore, because he has to go home. It’s always been heading for this, and he knows it. It’s not that different from his first shot at life, where he’d always been heading for ignominious failure and death. It had just taken a bit of time to get there. 

He can admit to himself, now, that he has his suspicions about John Laurens’ death. He can remember the desperation and lack of interest in his own self-preservation in the battles he’s recalled. Jack isn’t one to judge, but he’s pretty sure Laurens had been doing his best to get himself killed. 

He’s going to need that same kind of recklessness to do what he has to do. 

Jordan and Marissa are still with Alex in the kitchen, and Laf has been gently sent away to give them privacy. Alex - he isn’t ok, and they all know it, and there’s no telling how long it will be before he can really function again. Jack is keeping his distance, too, but he can make out the sounds of their voices, rising and falling, and broken sounds that are clearly sobs. He’s glad that Alex can finally express himself; Marissa keeps reminding him of the value of open emotional expression. Hopefully this is the start of things getting better for Alex at last.

He’s horrified by the sudden rush of affection and heartbreak that sweeps over him, as another realization falls into place. He’s going to have to leave Alex behind.

Of course, that always was the obvious conclusion, because Alex and the Wallertons go together, and he can’t have any of them. He hadn’t really thought through that, though, because it’s a shock that rocks him back physically, almost knocks him off his feet. He’s not going to get to see Alex get better and come back to his brilliant, incisive, prickly, oddly kind self. He’s not going to get to go back to school with him, and ride horses with Alex and Laf, or ever figure out who Alexander Hamilton had been to John Laurens. 

But what he does know, beneath all the levels of self-protection and denial and distance, is that he has left Alexander before, or Alexander left him, and the world was never the same again, John Laurens had never quite been right again, and Jack cannot afford to think about any of that right now because he will break, and there’s no time for that.

He goes up to his room, gathering every shred of courage and recklessness and obstinacy that John has given him, trying to find the intemperate young man Benjamin Franklin had known, and calls Phil Skyler.

~~~~~  
Alex eats dinner with them that night, for the first time in more than three weeks. He’s ashen-faced, drawn and worn, and he looks as though eating is the last thing he wants to do, but he keeps them all company and even answers questions, sometimes. He’s withdrawn, for Alex, and they’re all handling him with kid gloves, but just to have him responsive and able to communicate is a relief that almost makes Jack sob. 

Nobody asks him questions about what he had remembered. They all know too well the weight of remembered griefs, the unbearable downward pull of sorrows that could not be shaken off; they are all Second-Timers, after all. 

For the next few days, Jack watches Alex as continually as he can, with a silent countdown burning in his brain - every hour is one hour less he has with Alex; every meal is closer to the last one he’ll eat with this family he loves so well. Alex is so solemn and weighed down, even now that he’s beginning to talk again. He goes on long walks, or takes himself to the barn to spend time with the horses, and he hardly even talks to Laf, now. He’s not angry with any of them, Jack can tell. It’s as though he’s aged a lifetime in the past month. His spikes are all down, his barriers gone, and Alex is so terribly tired and vulnerable.

He doesn’t talk to Jack anymore.

He’s not sure whether Alex is aware of it, but Jack is, with a horrible miserable clarity of thought that’s unusual for him. Alex is avoiding him, for some reason. He barely answers if Jack tries to talk to him, and it’s markedly worse with Jack than any of the others. Alex won’t look at him, won’t acknowledge his presence.

If he weren’t so utterly miserable at the idea of leaving the Wallertons, it would almost be a relief to be away from Alex. It hurts, to be absent from him while they’re still in such proximity. 

He knows, now, that he must have been right all along. Alex has remembered him from the past, and what he recalls of John Laurens is enough to have destroyed the friendship he’d had with Jack.

“Give him time,” Jordan tells Jack and Laf that weekend, when Alex is off somewhere on his own, and they’re both sulking a bit. “What he’s been through - what he’s going through - he needs time and space to process it. He’ll come out all right on the other end, I’m sure.”

“How can you be sure?” Laf asks, his usual ebullience gone. 

“Because I’ve seen him do it before,” Jordan says. “It’s a process, and he was never particularly skilled at it, but he made it through, and he will again.”

Of course he knows. Of course he’s seen it before, because Alex gave the game away, and now Jack knows who Jordan is, too. It only makes sense, and he feels really dumb for not having picked up on it months ago. 

He had been George Washington, and Marissa had been Martha Washington, and everything makes so much sense now. Of course they knew Alexander, and he remembers hearing a story in grade school about Lafayette and how he had been so close to Washington. If he weren’t still absolutely forbidding himself from doing research on the period, Jack knows he could know all of it in half an hour of reading - how they all fit together, and what had happened to Alexander and Lafayette in their later lives, and probably exactly what has cut Alex off at the knees like this and left him so achingly vulnerable. 

Jack suspects that he had known Washington, himself - or rather, John had. He remembers letters from him on his mission to France, urging his diplomatic mission on in strong terms, and a letter expressing a lack of surprise at the failure of his political scheme for a battalion of freedmen - but there’s no more personal recognition in his memories. He cannot recall a face or a voice other than Jordan’s. It’s not likely that they had been closely acquainted, anyway, and Jordan has never shown any sign of recognizing him from the past. He still finds himself looking at both of his foster parents with increased awe, if that is even possible, at the idea of how exalted the company is that he keeps now. 

But he’s not letting himself think about it too much. He’s not doing research. He promises himself he can learn all of it once he’s back home, once it doesn’t matter how hard he might fall. 

Phil is coming at the end of the week, and Jack is counting down the hours in his head, trying to hold onto every moment. He doesn’t want to go. He already misses every corner of the house, and everything about Alex and the Wallertons, and even the horses. He’s going to be so miserable to leave.

The part of him that was a soldier is all that’s getting him through it. John Laurens knew how to face the unimaginable, how to gear himself up for a battle he might not survive, and Jack draws on every bit of that knowledge that he’s managed to get back. Of course, the part of him that was once John is also screaming in his head that he has no business walking away, that he needs to stay by Alex’s side and prove his worth to the General, and Jack has to ignore all of that in order to remain functional.

Marissa takes him along on a grocery run midweek, and it’s so nice just to spend time with her that it shakes all of his resolve. She buys all his favorite foods without having to ask, and he finds his eyes stinging. 

“How are you doing?” she asks, smiling at him so sweetly that he wants to call Phil right that second and call everything off, lie that he’s having flashbacks again and can’t possibly go home. But he knows his duty.

“Me?” Jack asks, blinking in surprise. “I’m not the one who’s been having a rough time.”

“More than one person can need love and attention at once, sweetheart,” Marissa reminds him. “And all of this has been hard on everyone. You’ve been really quiet. How are you holding up?”

“I’m ok,” Jack says quietly. He wants to tell her everything and let her somehow figure out a way to fix it for him, or else tell her absolutely nothing and let her think, like Phil, that he’s got it all under control and is ready to move on. He can’t make himself say either. “I just want Alex to be alright.”

“He will,” she promises. “And so will you and Laf.”

Jack swallows hard past a lump in his throat, and makes himself look at Marissa directly. “Thank you,” he tells her, with all the sincerity that two lives have given him access to. “For everything you and Jordan do for us.” He blinks back tears that threaten. “I just need you to know how much it means, and how fortunate I have been.” 

“We’re the lucky ones,” Marissa says, running a fond hand through his curls. “If we didn’t do this work, we never would have met you, or Laf, or Alex, and our lives would be so much poorer.”

“And all of your other ex-foster kids,” he points out, trying not to let himself think that soon he’ll be among that company. “I remember what Thanksgiving was like.”

“It’s been such an amazing journey with all of you.” Marissa sounds nostalgic. “Even in the hardest times, I wouldn’t change a thing.” 

He doesn’t let himself think about the things he would change, because it doesn’t matter. It’s pointless, as he can’t alter any of them, and there’s nothing to be done but for him to accept the reality that’s before him.

He starts packing when they get home. 

Jack hopes, uselessly, that maybe he’ll have a chance to have one proper conversation with Alex before he has to leave, but his avoidance skills are too advanced. He is working with Jordan and Marissa in fairly intensive therapy sessions, but there’s no chance for Jack to get a word in, even as the days tick by. 

He doesn’t sleep on Friday night, because Phil is coming in the morning, and he wants to be sick, or lock himself in his room and refuse to come out. His own belongings are already packed neatly in his backpack by the door; he can’t make himself take any of the things the Wallertons have bought for him during his stay. It all feels too real. He’s not going to be able to let himself walk away if he thinks too much about any of it. 

Jack watches the stars that night, and goes down to the kitchen for a last solitary mug of hot chocolate, stopping in every room along the way to look around one last time. He lets himself linger at the kitchen table where he’s made so many memories over the last six months. There are few places in the world more comfortable to him, now, than this table and chairs and the warm, tidy kitchen. 

Jack almost jumps out of his skin when Alex appears, silent and cat-like, staring at him in the darkness. He wipes at his face fast, and hopes it’s dark enough for Alex not to see the evidence.

“Jack,” Alex says, his voice carefully neutral.

“Hey,” Jack offers back. It’s the closest thing to a conversation they’ve had in a month. Alex watches him carefully for another minute, before coming in and starting to make his own mug of tea. 

“I still don’t know you,” Alex says after a minute. His voice is weird - choppy and awkward, like he’s still figuring out how to talk again. “It seems like I should, after everything I - all I’ve been -” he stops, thinks, and then starts again. “I thought I would, once I started thinking straight again. I remembered the Washingtons, and -” 

He cuts himself off again, bracing his hands on the back of a chair and leaning forward, as though he’s been stabbed. He doesn’t move for a long minute.

“Good,” John whispers, loud enough for Alex to hear, but he doesn’t want to disturb him too greatly in his grief. “I think it wouldn’t do you any good.”

“Then tell me, Jack.” Alex straightens up and looks at him, and he’s as much made of fire as he is of grief. “Tell me why I am angry every time I look at you, every time I think about you. What did you do to me?”

“I don’t know,” Jack admits. He’s exhausted, and things are only about to get harder from here on out. “I don’t know you, either. I got a lot of things wrong, last time, so I’m not surprised to hear I’ve left a scar.” He thinks through the flashes of memory he does have, and cannot put a name to any of the emotions that come with his thoughts of Alexander. He hasn’t let himself think about them in so long, and he doesn’t dare take the risk now. He shrugs, and looks down at his hands, letting his hair fall around his face.

John Laurens is screaming at him, but he’s too tired to listen.

“I don’t know what to do about it,” Alex admits. He walks past Jack to make his tea, and they’re standing (or sitting) back to back, which feels oddly fitting. “I want to punch you, and you haven’t done anything wrong.”

“It’s not going to be a problem much longer,” Jack promises quietly, still looking at his hands. “I’m dealing with it.”

Alex makes a noise - confusion or agreement or asking for more detail, but Jack doesn’t have the emotional resources to keep talking about it. Morning is coming in only a few hours, and he needs to marshall his courage for what’s to come. He gets up and walks away, ignoring every beat of his heart that tells him he’s going the wrong way. 

Time goes strange after that, passing in leaps and bounds that seem to span hours, while minutes drag by with countless, endless seconds. He’s watching the stars, and then the sun is rising, and it’s the last day. 

He gets up and dresses like a soldier, putting on courage and resolve with his clothing, arming himself against what is coming. He’s armed himself for battle before. 

“Perform without fail what you resolve,” he tells his reflection in the mirror - not the original, of course, but a replacement Jordan had hung up for him without ever commenting on the fate of the one he had broken. He looks young to his own eyes today, and he doesn’t have time for it. 

It wouldn’t have mattered what he told Phil, really. This was coming for him, no matter what, and all he’s done is speed up the approach, choose his own time and date of facing the real world again. At least this way, he’s going out with a purpose, in the hope that it might do some little amount of good for others. 

It’s pretty much exactly what he had thought as he’d faced the ambush at the Combahee River, too.

He can’t let himself dwell on it. 

He goes downstairs.

Phil gets there as the boys are all still sitting together over breakfast. Laf’s the only one who’s eating, for once. Alex is staring at his plate like it has betrayed him personally, and Jack can’t even look at food without his stomach churning. He keeps his chin up, though, and doesn’t say anything as Phil makes polite conversation, and they all move into the living room to chat.

“How are you doing, Alex?” Phil asks first, watching him with concern. “You seem very much improved from the last time I checked in on you.”

“Just nifty,” Alex says, his voice dark and forbidding. “Enjoying the endless joys of the reincarnate life.”

Phil nods sympathetically. “Are you making progress processing the latest memory retrieval?” Alex just glares at him, so Jordan steps in.

“He’s working on it. There’s a lot to work through, as you may guess, and we’re really taking things day by day right now.” Jordan nods meaningfully at Phil, who nods and makes some notes for himself, and does not bring up any questions of adoption or permanency. Jack is very glad of this, for Alex’s sake - this is not the time for any of that, not when he’s still reeling from a loss that none of them know the depths or dimensions of. 

“All right. I’ll be sure to keep up with your progress over the next few weeks, and when I’m out here next month, we can see where things stand.” Alex nods once, and looks like he wants to leave. Jack wishes he would. This is about to get hard. He takes a few deep breaths, practices his grounding exercises, and resolves not to have a flashback right now, no matter how stressful things get.

“And Jack,” Phil says, flipping through his paperwork and suddenly sounding a great deal more cheerful. “Big day! Are you ready?”

“Ready?” Marissa asks, suddenly concerned. “What’s going on?”

“Well, the Laurences have completed their plan to the satisfaction of the State Department of Reincarnate Affairs,” Phil says, pulling out a few sheets of paper and passing them to Marissa. “Education, visitations, all of it, and considering how well Jack is doing, the Department is ready to move forward with reunification.”

“Wait,” Jordan says, scooting forward on the couch and leaning over his knees, looking at the papers in his wife’s hands. “You don’t mean right away, surely?”

Phil scratches his head. “Well, it’s a bit difficult, I admit. If you were closer to his home, we’d go with a more traditional reunification plan - some home visits, a night or two there to make sure it’s going well, and then finally fully moving him back in. Given the distance, though, that’s not really practical, so we’re moving a bit faster than usual.”

“Phil, I don’t think that it’s appropriate at this point,” Marissa says sharply. Her hand clutches the papers so tightly they crumple all along one edge. “I’m not sure how much contact you’ve had with his parents, but I am deeply concerned about some of their attitudes and actions toward Second-Timers in general, and towards Jack in particular.” She shoots him a quick, apologetic glance, and it takes everything he has not to run to her and beg her not to let it happen. He bites his lip and keeps quiet. 

“I haven’t met with them, but we’ve talked several times, and the Parent Liaison in the Charleston office indicates that they’ve had good meetings with the Laurences, and they have no concerns about moving forward.” He smiles at her, but it’s a bit condescending. “I understand your concerns, of course, but it seems like the scare in December really helped them to wake up and understand the stakes. They’ve taken the case a great deal more seriously since then.”

“That’s been less than two months,” Jordan points out, starting to sound upset. “They did nothing for the first four months their son was in care, and now, all of a sudden, you’re ready to just send him back? They won’t have any idea what he’s going through, or how to help him!”

“There are Parent Liaisons on call 24/7,” Phil says reassuringly, “and the Department can provide support as needed. This is a good outcome, Jordan. This is the kind of thing we want to see, isn’t it?” He sounds a little accusing.

“Only when the timing is right,” Marissa snaps. “Jack is barely getting started on his memories, and has a good deal more to go! There are so many potential issues he could face!” She glances over at Alex for a split second. 

Jack doesn’t say anything. He’s just trying to keep breathing evenly, to keep himself centered on this time and place, when in the back of his mind he can hear fife and drum, calling him to war.

“Look, I understand your concerns,” Phil says. “I share them, to an extent. But Jack is really doing exceptionally well - in no small part thanks to your excellent work, of course.” He shuffles through his papers again, not looking at any of them. “There’s a new push in place to reunify a great deal faster,” he admits. “The research is showing a concerning level of Second-Timers never going home when they potentially could, because they are forming stronger bonds with their therapeutic families and losing ties to the birth families. We’re trying to turn that trend around.”

“I’m not concerned with the larger trends,” Jordan says - and for a moment, John thinks he hears George Washington, remembers the tones and cadences of his voice, but he blinks it away. He has to stay present. “I am concerned with Jack Laurence, today. He’s hardly ready to make the transition back to a non-reincarnate home life after a mere six months!”

“Jack,” Marissa says, turning to him, looking almost frightened. “What do you think?” 

She thinks he’s going to tell Phil he isn’t ready, Jack knows, and he wishes he could. He clutches his hands together tightly in his lap, and doesn’t look up. 

“I’m ready to go home,” he says. He can’t help it if his voice is heavy and dull; he can barely get the words out as it is. “I think I can handle it.”

Time goes strange again around him, and he vaguely hears Jordan and Marissa arguing with Phil, objecting and correcting, but he’s not hearing the details. It could be five minutes or an hour, and he hardly knows where he is when Marissa is suddenly in front of him, bending over enough to grab him in a huge, teary hug.

“I wish it wasn’t happening like this,” she says, and he feels her choking back a sob. “Sweetheart, promise me you’ll stay in touch, and let us know if there’s ever anything we can do. We’ll be there in a heartbeat if you need us.”

He stands up and hugs her back, and it’s everything he can do to nod, and not to cry. She holds on to him for a long time, and kisses him on the forehead when she finally lets go. 

Jordan is by her side, and he’s got his arms around Jack as soon as Marissa lets go. He’s such a strong, reassuring presence that Jack almost falls apart - but he can’t, he can’t, he has a war to fight. “You are welcome back here at any time, and for any reason,” Jordan tells him quietly. “And I expect to see you at Thanksgiving, son.” Jack can’t do more than nod again, and hold himself together.

Alex has gone to get Laf, and there’s such genuine sorrow and incomprehension on his face that Jack hurts to look at him. He embraces him, and even though there’s nothing to say, he hopes Laf will understand. 

Alex stares at him from a distance, every bit as walled off and prickly as he had been the day they met. Jack excuses himself for a minute to grab his things, and doesn’t notice that Alex has followed him to his room until he turns around, backpack in hand.

“You already knew,” Alex says, his voice an accusation. “You knew last night. You’re already packed.”

Jack nods, because what is he supposed to say?

“Why?” Alex asks. It’s an entire lecture, an essay, a missive full of detailed arguments, the way it comes from his mouth, the way he’s staring at Jack.

“I’m just out of time.” It’s nothing like a full explanation, but there’s no way he’s getting the words out to even begin to explain. “Look after them, will you?”

Alex nods, still watching him. He moves out of the doorway when Jack moves forward, but stops him with an outstretched hand, which Jack takes. They hold tight for a moment, and Alex grabs his arm with his free hand. “Take care of yourself.” His voice is very strange, and Jack has to shake off a sudden and terrible wave of memory, of sentiment, that seeks to overwhelm him.

Marissa hugs him again before he goes, and he manages to make it through, and out to Phil’s car, without falling apart entirely.

It’s better this way, he thinks distantly, staring out the window sightless as Phil drives him away from the house, as the forms of Alex and the Wallertons shrink out of view on the front porch. It’s better. He’s left with his head held high, not on his knees, begging to stay. He’s left on his own terms and not been sent away. They’ll be better off, and he’ll be fine at home.

In the back of his head, John Laurens is still screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, kids. That was - a lot. Hope you're all hanging in there. 
> 
> I can say 'I'm sobbing, etc' all the time, but this is legitimately only the third time I've ever cried while writing, and it was UGLY this time. Of course, I never make it through Hamilton without ugly crying, either, so that probably adds to it. 
> 
> It's going to get better, I promise you that. We're not here for doom and gloom and despair all the way through, and I love them all too much to let it end like this. (And you guys, too.) Yours, in floods of tears - Kivrin.


	22. twenty-two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey kids, pay attention, because there's an endnote I want you to read! <3
> 
> Also, trigger warning for suicidal ideation and some self-harming behavior. What a heartwarming story this is.

Phil hands Jack off to another agent of the Department with a firm handshake and an assurance that he’ll be checking in after a month or so, and that Jack can call him at any time if he has any problems. They drive him back to Charleston in near-silence; he has nothing important to say, and can’t manage to make himself talk about things that don’t matter.

It’s the same route he’d driven with Marissa at Christmas, and he can’t help but keep making the comparison in his head, which makes him absolutely miserable. He’s got no-one to blame but himself, though. 

He drifts, sort of, letting himself remember the times with the Wallertons that he will want to carry with him, letting himself think absently about the past. He’s not going diving into his memories just yet, but there’s no point trying to hold them all back anymore, either. Whatever comes will come, and he’ll deal with it when it does. 

He’s standing outside his parents’ house in what seems like far too little time. The agent takes him to the door, watches his mother greet him, shakes hands, leaves. It feels like the last link back home - no. Back to the Wallertons - is gone. That’s not his home anymore, if it ever had been. He was never going to get to stay. 

“I’m so glad you’re home, dear,” his mother says. She looks like she means it. “It’s been far too long.”

“Since Christmas,” he says, testing the waters. He leaves that hanging in the air for a moment.

“Yes, that was unfortunate,” his mother agrees. His father has gone back to his chair, reading something on his laptop, watching Jack warily over the top of the screen. “But we’ll be more prepared this time, won’t we?”

“I guess,” Jack says. He has to be careful right now, he knows. It wouldn’t do for him to have a flashback two minutes after he walks through their door, even if he can already feel himself starting to feel stressed at the memories of the last time he’d been here. “I do have a better handle on things now, most of the time.”

“And we’ve been making plans, dear,” his mother says. “The people at the department for - well, you know.” She makes a semi-disgusted face and shakes her head. “They advised us to let you finish the school year from home - cyber school, I think they called it, so you won’t have to worry about having your little issues in school.”

“Okay,” Jack says. He’s tired already. 

“And we’ve worked out medications with the doctors who saw you in the hospital, so even if you should have a relapse, we’ll be prepared!” She beams at him. She’s worked everything out to her satisfaction. 

“I don’t want you to medicate me,” Jack says. He’s thought hard about what he can and cannot protest, which battles he can fight. He’s learned not to try to fight them all. “It made things worse, mom.”

“That’s not what the doctors said, dear,” she says lightly. 

“But the doctors don’t have a clue about reincarnation,” he presses. 

“They’re the experts on mental illness,” his father says shortly. “If they say this is what you need, then it’s what you need. I don’t believe any of it, but you’ll do as your mother says.” He goes back to his computer.

“Please, mom,” Jack says, trying to address her like an adult, to impress her with his ability to argue rationally. He isn’t mentally ill. “I don’t like the way the medication made me feel.”

“Well, dear, of course we won’t use it if we don’t have to!” She assures him, patting his arm lightly. “It’s only for if you can’t control your condition on your own.” 

And that’s the end of the conversation. She moves on, telling him to take his shoes off in the house, to go and put away his backpack, and Jack moves upstairs in a bit of a haze, thinking as fast as he can.

He can’t afford to have flashbacks - not in public, not that his parents will recognize as symptoms of Second-Timer Syndrome. He obviously can’t talk to them about his memories, or things he’s struggling with. It’s what he’d expected, really. He puts his bag down in the room that used to be his, that’s his again, now, and goes back downstairs. 

“I’ve ordered delivery,” she says when he reappears. “It’s so odd thinking of food for three again!”

He’s not hungry, anyway. He pulls out his phone to check the time, and his mother gives a disapproving sniff. “Dear, that’s not the phone we gave you. You left that here at Christmas.”

“I know,” he says. “The Wallertons gave me this one. I didn’t want to bother you to send the other one.”

She shakes her head and extends her hand. “Jack, you need to give me that.”

“Why?” He doesn’t mean to talk back, just to understand, but she looks like he’s screamed in her face.

“Young man, you need to watch your attitude in this household!” She shakes her hand imperiously, and he hands it over, reluctant to let go. “It’s not appropriate for you to remain in contact with those people now that you’re back at home. Your own phone is in your room. I’ll send this one back to the group home.”

“I can’t talk to them?” He hadn’t seen this coming, and it feels like the world has dropped out from beneath his feet. “Mom, they’re my friends!”

“They aren’t your friends, dear,” she says firmly. “They kidnapped you for six months!”

“Filled your head with all this nonsense about reincarnation,” his father grunts, still not looking up from his screen. “You need to keep away from them now that you’re home.”

He tries to breathe in deeply, but his lungs don’t want to work properly. He’d thought, at least, that he could stay in touch. It would have hurt, to watch them grow more distant as their relationship faded, but he didn’t want to just lose them for good. And Jordan had said he was to come back for Thanksgiving. His eyes start to sting again; it feels like this morning, in the Wallertons house, was already part of a different life.

“I’m really tired,” he says with difficulty. The world is fuzzy around the edges in ways that presage a possible memory retrieval, and he can’t do that here, in front of them. “Can I go to my room?”

“We haven’t even had dinner,” his mother protests. Jack shakes his head.

“I’m not hungry.” 

“Fine,” she sighs, and turns away to complain to his father as he heads up the stairs. “Sulking already! I’ll be glad when he’s through this phase.” His father grunts agreement, and Jack makes it to his room before he loses control. 

He slumps against the door as it closes, shutting the outside world away from him, cutting off his freedom, his liberty to contribute to the cause. 

It should be that an entire state is not too small a prison for his spirit, but John aches at the loss of his freedom. Paroled to Pennsylvania, cut off from the war effort, with nothing to do but remember the fall of Charleston, the ignominious surrender as they’d marched out with their flags cased. He is not made for surrender. His spirit rebels against it, but he is bound by his word of honor, and he cannot break that, not for anything.

He has nothing to do, nothing to fight against, nothing to strive for. He cannot even write, despite his terrifying amounts of unfilled time, because there is nothing to write of save for his misery at captivity, his desire to be back with the General’s family, or back in the fight in the south. Or anywhere, really, he does not mind, so long as they would give him something to do.

It would have been better to have been killed at Charleston, he thinks sometimes. Washington can do nothing to speed up an exchange. None of his esteemed social contacts do him any good, now, and if he is to spend the rest of the war in this benighted state, he is liable to do himself an injury. 

Jack wakes up on the floor a few hours later, face still wet with tears, and his heart is as heavy as Laurens’ had ever been.

~~~~~

He very quickly learns to dissemble, and sometimes lets himself think how proud Alex would be of his new talent for deception. Just as Alex had said, it turns out that being able to fake sleep is a great weapon in the new war he is engaged in. 

He takes to wearing headphones, though he plays nothing through them, because they give him an excuse if he doesn’t hear his parents through the noise of a brief flashback or the awkward absences his consciousness has begun taking from his body at unexpected times. He drifts too often, his mind going back centuries, and sometimes it is very hard to pull himself back to the present. Even though his memories, at present, are mostly of his time as a prisoner of war, the worst time of his life (as he had repeatedly told everyone he managed to write to), they’re preferable to the present.

They’ve put something on his phone - some sort of parental control app - that regulates everything he can do. He can only call or text approved numbers, and his email is very locked down; his parents can apparently let things through at will, but everything else is withheld. The same is true for the computer he uses for cyber schooling, although it’s kind of a joke to call it school of any sort. His time is empty and open and terrible. He can’t talk to the Wallertons or Laf or Alex - though Alex probably isn’t interested in talking to Jack, anyway, given how they’d left things. 

He misses their house so much - the warmth of the fire that was always crackling in the living room, and the companionable noise of the kitchen as they worked together to make a meal, and the serenity of his room - which was made more enjoyable by the knowledge that he could stick his head out at any moment and find someone to talk to or go riding with, if he liked.

Jack hasn’t seen anyone but his parents since he got home, other than brief interactions with teachers online. His mother orders takeout every night, and his father reads news headlines at them over dinner. 

Jack draws. He doesn’t have much else to do with his time. He sketches what he can remember of the courts of France, and the ship he’d sailed home upon, and their charge on the redoubt at Yorktown. He draws the faces of the others he remembers, Alexander and Lafayette chief among them; Washington’s little military family. He draws the man himself, but has to put the picture away at once because he’s so filled with miserable longing to see Jordan again. 

His parents don’t talk at all about his time away. It’s as though it had never happened, as though six months of absence plus a trip to the hospital had all taken place in his imagination. He gets desperate enough for human interaction a week after he’s come home that he shows his mother some of his drawings. 

“That’s very nice, dear,” she says, squinting uncertainly at the ink on paper. All they have is ballpoint pen, and he very much regrets leaving his quill and ink back at the Wallertons. “What is it?”

“Cornwallis’ surrender at Yorktown,” he explains. “The famous painting got it all wrong, so I wanted to put it down correctly. See, that was Cornwallis, and Washington was-”

“Oh, Jack,” his mother says impatiently, brushing the paper away. “You know I never remember all that historical nonsense.”

“It isn’t nonsense,” he objects. He has to put up a fight sometimes, or he’s pretty sure John Laurens is going to kill him in his sleep. “It was incredibly important! It was the turning point of the whole war. We never would have won if it hadn’t been for-”

“We?” She asks, lifting an eyebrow. He knows enough to shut his mouth, and she shakes her head and sighs, looking disappointed. “I’m concerned with this fixation of yours on the past, dear. We really need to get you looking forward - focusing on the world of tomorrow! What do you think about signing up for an online coding course! Mrs. Kinloch down the street says her grandson is learning all sorts of programming languages, and he’s only nine!”

At least John isn’t the only one who bears the weight of being a disappointment, Jack thinks tiredly. He doesn’t try to talk to her about anything historical again.

~~~~~

He starts thinking seriously about finally doing his research after the first week has dragged on with a slowness matched only by his time as a prisoner, and even that impulse is only because if he doesn’t get his mind away from the flashbacks to imprisonment, he’s going to lose it entirely. 

Jack writes up a list of the pros and cons of researching John Laurens. It kills a little time, at least. There’s not a great deal to recommend it, other than possibly alleviating his boredom for a while, and answering some of the questions that plague him about his past. How had he known Hamilton and Washington, after all? How had he wound up in Charleston to be captured, since he knows very well that Washington hadn’t been there? What exactly had Uncle Ben meant, about his being intemperate and importunate? He doesn’t have any great desire to know John Laurens, but considering that his current company consists of his collection of drawings and the spider that hangs out in the corner of his room, he’s not exactly in a place to be picky. 

On the other hand, there are some significant downsides to the idea. The largest, of course, is the risk he would be running of triggering a massive flashback or a memory retrieval like the one Alex has just been through - something big enough that he can’t hide it from his parents. If he slips up like that even once, he knows what’s coming - medication, which will lead to a slippery slope into less manageable flashbacks, and he’ll wind up back in the mental hospital.

Some days, that doesn’t seem like such a bad thing.

On day twelve, he decides to take a middle path, and searches for Alexander Hamilton. He remembers what Laf had said about Wikipedia, so he skips over that and heads for a more reputable looking online source. 

The article is approximately six million words long, he thinks, and his jaw drops a little as he scrolls through, skimming the entirety of the article before he lets himself start reading. How the hell had Alex done all of this, and not even made it to the age of fifty? Eight children, fame and fortune and scandal and disgrace, and his name is everywhere through early American history. The picture at the end of the article, showing a painting of Hamilton done near the end of his life, stops Jack short. 

It’s not the Alexander he remembers. He’s so much quieter looking, sober and wistful, with sorrow around his eyes that Jack understands a little. He knows some of what had happened to Alexander later. The Alexander he had known was only a little piece of the man he’d become. 

He goes back to the start of the piece, intending to read it properly, but he’s sidetracked again by another picture - a woman with dark eyes and a sweet face, and his heart stops for a moment. 

Elizabeth Schuyler. 

Hamilton had written about her when John was still a prisoner of war; he remembers snatches of the letters. He’d written of his intent to marry, and of his wish that John was able to leave Pennsylvania to attend the wedding. 

“No,” Jack whispers, grabbing at the arms of his desk chair to try to orient himself, attempting to hold himself in the present, to stave off the rush of memory and emotion that he can feel bearing down on him like a train. “Not yet, not now -”

He remembers - Alexander was getting married, and the prisoner exchange was to be completed in time, and he could have gone to Albany, could have attended his friend’s wedding -

He had gone to France instead. 

He knows what’s coming, and he cannot face it. The swelling tide of emotion threatens to sweep him off his feet entirely, and he cannot do it, cannot face the reality of what Alexander had been to him, or the depths of despair that Laurens had felt. He wants to find Marissa and let her talk him through it, get Jordan to stand guard over him while he faces the awful reality; he wants Laf, talking to him with nonstop energy and enthusiasm. He wants Alex. He cannot let himself face facts.

He is on his own, again, a prisoner of circumstances, again. 

Jack gathers all his willpower and stubbornness, drawing on Laurens’ anger with all the world at the injustice of timing and the uncaring nature of the universe, whose very stars themselves seemed set against him, and punches the wall as hard as he can. 

The pain is enough to almost knock him out, but it does the trick. He’s back in the present, mind his own again, staring at the mark he’d made on the wall. Hopefully it hadn’t been loud enough for his parents to hear. 

It’s his left hand, thankfully - he’d had the presence of mind to use his non-dominant hand. He’s probably broken something, judging from the fierceness of the pain that rushes through it, and the difficulty he has moving it.

It’s worth it, though, he thinks fiercely. He’ll break more than his hand if that’s what it takes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, ducklings, this is officially insane now. I looked at the comments on the last chapter and there were 50 of them. 50. On one chapter. I don't even know what to say. Thank you all - you're utterly insane and I adore you.
> 
> So I wrote, instead, and because I've been feeling very guilty for all of the angst I'm putting you through, I - well, I wrote more angst! Nice how that works out, huh? (Also, important note - NO FEARS about the Character Death tag, I swear! That's there because everyone is so very dead already, and also poor Aaron Burr. I'm not killing anyone else.)
> 
> But then I wrote something else, too, so here's the scoop. Something else is going up under my name within the next hour or so, and you are definitely going to want to read it. Like, be really sure you don't miss it. You will be Sad if you do. Enough vagueness from me now - have all my love and adoration, and be as happy as you deserve!


	23. twenty-three

His hand is a swollen, bruised mess the next day, but Jack isn’t sure that it’s broken. He doesn’t care, either. He keeps it hidden in the pocket of his hoodie when he’s around his parents, but he knows he probably doesn’t need to bother.

So, research on his past is not looking like a good idea, he decides over a bowl of cereal. Research on Hamilton had nearly broken him, and who knows what other mines are hidden in the depths of his memory, just waiting to explode? He’s back to square one, back to repressing his memories as best he can and trying not to let himself get caught in the moments he can’t help but lose control.

He needs a plan, though. This is not a long-term solution, not really. He can’t hold off memory retrievals forever, and his parents are even less understanding of reincarnate issues than they had been when he had left. They have very different ideas of how to handle flashbacks, and he really, really doesn’t want them medicating him every time he remembers something from his past. 

So fight, John Laurens wants to tell him. Fight back. Tell them you want to go home. Make them listen.

But he can’t. If he’d had that power, he wouldn’t have had to come back in the first place; he’d still be with the Wallertons, with Alex.

Phil, he thinks, with a sudden rush of relief. Phil will be coming to visit in a week or so, and he can talk to him then. He can explain that they really don’t understand yet, that they need more help; he can ask for supports from whatever team they have in place. He can ask Phil, maybe, to help him figure out how to get in contact with the Wallertons, so they won’t think he’s just cut them off. He just has to keep himself together until then, until he can get a message through. There are people who can help; there are ways out of this that don’t wind up with him in a mental hospital, he’s sure of it. 

~~~~~

When he sleeps that night, he dreams of Charles Towne, more than two hundred years ago - the city cut off from aid, surrounded by the British, enclosed on all sides. There are no supplies coming in, no reinforcements due to arrive. The siege is going on and on, and the situation is only getting worse. They cannot possibly hold much longer without outside help.

When he wakes up, smoke in his nostrils from the fires that had burned the family home in Charleston, panting with the stress of remembering the encroaching army, he feels more like John Laurens than he has since he died. 

Memories fall into place - the fall of Charleston, the ignominious surrender, his months in captivity and the journey to France, all the endless waiting before the glorious charge at Yorktown, fighting side by side with Alexander after the distance between them has finally been eliminated. Alexander, greeting him with the same joy John feels at their reunion; Alexander, telling him in hushed tones across the fire of his new wife, assuring John that she will not, can not replace John in his heart. Alexander, headed to New York, while John was going South, and there was no knowing when they would meet again.

They never had.

He stares at the ceiling, trying to piece together what has happened since then. John feels like he’s been asleep for so long, with odd moments of wakefulness; he remembers bits and pieces from the new life he has, the new world he’s found himself in, but it doesn’t really feel like it belongs to him yet. 

Eventually, he rises and looks in the mirror, at the strangely familiar face that is not his own. He’s a boy again, but he looks nothing like he did in the memories he has of his first life. The world has turned upside down. He looks into green eyes under wild curls, and feels so strangely defensive of the boy he’s become now, the boy he is now. He doesn’t look much older than Jemmy had, when he’d died. 

They share a body, and he knows Jack’s memories, and he does not see the world through the same eyes as the boy - but they are the same person, somehow. He knows that, and yet it makes no sense. 

What is important now, though, is that Jack wants to give up, and John cannot let that happen. He wants the fight to be over - and while that is a worthy goal, they must struggle and claw their way through before victory is theirs. 

He retreats. It’s not the best word for what’s going on, but there don’t seem to be fully appropriate terms. John feels like he’s drawing back, allowing Jack to handle the situation before them while John watches, waits, tries to plan the next move. But he is Jack at the same time, yawning as he pulls on fresh socks, groaning at the idea of another day of incredibly dull online lessons, wondering how much longer he’ll have to hold on before Phil comes. Jack knows how to navigate the world as it is now. 

But the world is strewn with explosives, it seems, and everywhere he turns, something wants to spark a memory. The weather announcer on TV has hair the exact shade Hamilton’s had been when it gleamed in the sun; his father reads local news headlines, and so many of the place names in Charleston are the same as they had been back then; his mother complains about being out of single-use coffee pods, and John remembers sharing a pot of bitter coffee over a campfire, and how they’d all still been getting used the the awful stuff in favor of tea, which no patriot would drink again. He’s fighting off memories left and right, and even his parents are starting to notice.

“Jack, dear,” his mother says carefully over dinner, watching him shake his head violently as he pulls away from another intrusive memory. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” he says shortly. His head hurts, and he wants to rub his eyes, but he can’t afford to show weakness. It’s been a long day.

“Are you sure?” She presses the question, leaning a little farther back at the far end of the table. “If you think you’re going to have one of your little episodes, you need to let us know.”

“Not episodes,” John tells her sharply. He normally would never speak to his mother this way, but he does not have infinite resources to manage the situation. “Memories. I know you have been instructed in this, though you seem to have some trouble of your own memory if you cannot retain this information.”

He’s John again, and oh, it feels good - to speak his mind, to say some piece of what troubles Jack, but that he cannot put into words. Jack is young, still, and has been taught to be silent, to hold his tongue. John has no such restriction.

“Watch your attitude, young man,” his father warns, not looking up from his reading. “You may have forgotten how to show respect for your elders in that group home, but you’ll remember your place when you’re under my room.”

John laughs, amused all of a sudden by the smallness of these people, the limited scope of their understanding, the shallowness of their concerns. “I was born almost three hundred years ago. Wouldn’t that make me your elder, by any reasonable accounting?”

“Oh, don’t, dear,” his mother wails, as though he’s teasing a sibling - but Jack doesn’t have any siblings, that’s John’s life - “Can’t we have a nice dinner without any of this nonsense?”

“Certainly you may,” John says, standing and giving a courteous little bow. “If you’ll excuse me.” He walks away, and out the front door, closing it calmly behind him. 

Jack wouldn’t dare. He would never even think of walking out like that; John cannot see any point in remaining at their table. 

His mother is out the door like a shot, and his father not far behind. “Jack, get back in here!” His mother’s voice is a controlled hiss, and he understands - she doesn’t want to alert the neighbors. He keeps walking. 

His father catches up to him at the edge of their driveway, grabbing his arm in a meaty fist that is probably going to leave a bruise if he keeps squeezing that hard. John looks at him, unimpressed. He’s faced death itself multiple times. One middle-aged hedge fund manager is not much of a threat.

“Get back in the house, Jack,” he growls. “I won’t tell you again.”

“I confess myself uninterested in hearing you repeat yourself,” John says coolly, enjoying himself just a bit. Anger flares in the man’s eyes, and he pulls hard enough to almost drag John off his feet. He’s still unimpressed, but John has to recalculate; he’s significantly shorter and lighter than this man, and probably cannot beat him in combat. Not without his musket or sword, anyway, and he happens to know Jack doesn’t have either. 

“This is ridiculous!” His mother can’t keep her voice quiet this time, and he sees the flicker of curtains in at least one neighboring window. She grabs him by the other wrist and starts pulling him back toward the house, while his father shoves him along from behind, still keeping a bruising grip on his arm. “What are you thinking, Jack? Making a scene in public? We clearly need to start you on that medication.”

“No,” he says sharply, pulling his hand away from her. “I’ve told you before. I do not want to be medicated.”

His father keeps pushing him forward, up the stairs and back inside, and his mother closes and locks the door behind him, breathing a sigh of relief. She turns and glares at him. “Obviously you need some sort of help, Jack! You’re raving like a lunatic, and - what? Running away from home? Where were you going to go?”

“When I was a prisoner-of-war, I learned to find some enjoyment and solace in solitary walks,” John says calmly. “I thought to do so now.”

“Stop putting on that silly voice and go to your room, Jack,” his father orders. “Now, or I’ll pack you in an ambulance myself and have them manage you in a straightjacket.” 

There’s no battle to be won here. John recedes gracefully, and Jack goes to his room, shaken by his own boldness and stupidity. 

~~~~~

His mother herds him into the car as soon as he’s up and dressed the next morning, and won’t let him ask any questions until they’re all on their way. She’s collected a few suitcases worth of items, and when Jack finally asks where they’re going, she gives him a very fake smile. 

“Our vacation, dear. Don’t you remember?”

“What about school?” Jack asks. He’s very sure she hasn’t said a word about their leaving for vacation today. 

“Hardly the most important thing,” she says, waving it away. “We’ll sort it out once we get home.”

“Which will be?” he asks, and her smile turns very cold for a minute.

“Well, we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?”

As it turns out, they have planned the absolute worst vacation on the planet. They’re not even leaving the Charleston area. His father golfs at a course that overlooks the sea, and his mother shops the antique stores in the area, and Jack follows her silently. They stay at a hotel near the ocean; he listens to the sound of the waves, and remembers a ship to and from France, and how it had reminded him of other times he had sailed the Atlantic. He’s tired even when he wakes up, and stays groggy all day, even when he forces himself to drink coffee to try to shake it off. His mother watches him carefully all that day, as they drive to a golf course further inland on what had once been a massive plantation. His father golfs, and his mother shops, and Jack follows along, silent and tired. 

They move from one to the next, until Jack can barely keep his eyes open, and cannot begin to fathom how his parents are spending money on any of this. It’s not even particularly good golfing or antiquing; they barely speak to one another, and he doesn’t think any of them are having fun.

On the fourth or fifth day - he’s losing count - his mother checks them in to an incredibly fancy inn near historic downtown Charleston. Jack wonders through a yawn why the place looks so familiar, but doesn’t actually care enough to think about it until they get their keys and check into the suite of rooms that have been reserved for them in the first floor of a historic home; a sign outside indicates it was built in 1760. As Jack wanders inside, his eye is caught the old brick fireplace. 

It’s so familiar it hurts. He moves forward, letting his backpack drop to the floor, and runs his fingers along the left side of the exposed brick, not sure what he’s looking for -

His fingers slip into a little crack, scarcely wide enough to fit a pencil, and he rocks back on his heels in shock. “We used to hide letters here,” John murmurs. “Our own letter exchange, here in the kitchen house.” Harry and Patsy and -

“Here, dear,” his mother says, passing him a bottle of orange juice. “I want you to drink all of that, you hear? Vitamins are so important.”

He doesn’t listen, but he drinks automatically; it’s the best way to get her to be quiet and leave him alone while he tries to think. It tastes bad - strangely bitter - but his mind is elsewhere. 

He had lived here, sometimes. Not always. He doesn’t remember much of it at all - it’s much farther back, in the memories that haven’t returned to Jack yet, but he can almost remember it - especially when his fingers are moving over the bricks, and he’s counting the lines and cracks like they used to. He had lived here, once. John Laurens cannot help but smile, just a little, and run his fingers over the ancient bricks again.

His mother’s phone rings, and she looks at the display and swears - a very unusual occurrence. She considers it for a long moment, and then answers.

“Hello? Oh yes, hi, Phil. How are you? Mm-hmm.” She listens a moment, looking concerned. “No, he’s doing very well! We’re very pleased. What’s that?” Another silence, and then she looks straight at John, meaning blazing from her eyes. “You want to speak to Jack? Well, of course! I’m sure he’ll be delighted to tell you how well it’s going!” 

She marches over and hands him the phone, and stares at him with unblinking focus. He hesitates a moment, and then says, “Hello?”

“Jack, how are you?” John doesn’t recognize the voice, but somehow he knows who it belongs to, even though it doesn’t make sense. He straightens, feeling as though he needs to make a report.

“General Schuyler, sir. Allow me to report on the conditions of the siege here in Charles Towne,” he says quickly. But General Schuyler wasn’t meant to be in this part of the colony, surely? Nonetheless, he needs to hear. Their situation is becoming dire.

“Oh, Jack, this is not the time for this nonsense,” his mother says, and Jack blinks, eyelids heavier than they should be. “Tell Phil how well you’re doing.” He opens his mouth to do so, but John Laurens shoves him aside again. He has a report to make, information to pass. 

“Jack, how are things going?” the general asks.

“The city is surrounded on all sides, sir. They’ve cut off our escape on every side, and we are under assault from burning shot.” John glances around, surprised again by the lack of smoke. Hadn’t the house been hit, hadn’t it burned? It looks so different, but it is still standing. 

“Are you yourself well?” General Schuyler continues.

“I have not been injured, General.” Not recently, anyway, and a shoulder wound is hardly anything to complain about. “My men follow my orders exceedingly well.” There’s a sharp push in his mind, a reminder from that strange, younger self, and John focuses. “We are attempting to repair the fortifications where they have been damaged.”

“Jack, stop this!” His mother steps closer and grabs his arm, shaking him a little. “We are not playing these games any longer.” She looks angry and scared, and he doesn’t know why at the moment. The air around her seems to shimmer, and he shakes his head, trying to clear it. He has to get the message through.

“General. I fear no help is coming.” He knows no help is coming - that has been made particularly clear. “General Washington will not come, and Hamilton says they have no aid to send and no way to get it here, even if they had men to spare. They will not consider my plan to enlist the help of slaves by granting their freedom.” It’s the last plan that could make a difference, but he has only reason on his side, and the politicians and plantation owners will not listen; they are blinded by prejudice and avarice. Schuyler needs to hear it, needs to get the message through - although, to whom? There is no help coming.

Jack’s mother grabs his hand, trying to pry the phone from his fingers. He doesn’t let go. He’s almost taller than she is, now, he notes absently. “Jack, you need your medicine. You’re raving again, dear.” She pitches her voice towards the phone, still trying to pull it from his hand. “Phil, I’m sorry. We’ll have to call you back when he’s a little calmer.”

“They argue for surrender, General,” John says, even as the device is finally pulled from his hand. His fingers don’t seem to be working as well as they ought. “I have voted against it. We must hold this city.” She glares at him, trying to cover the phone. John looks out the window again, at the garden that has trees and shrubs, still, and makes one more effort. “We will repair the fortifications, at whatever cost!”

She marches away from him, giving him a little shove backwards that shouldn’t pose any problem. Instead, he falls backwards onto the seat behind him, and it’s harder to stand again than it should be. What is wrong with his hands, with his legs? It feels like having had too much to drink on an empty stomach, but without any of the pleasant sensations which might accompany that state. 

“I have not completed my report,” John objects, getting to his feet at last. “I must speak to the General.” 

She ignores him, and another set of hands grabs his arm and pulls him backwards, shoving him on to the seat again. “Sit down and be quiet,” the man growls. His father? But not Henry Laurens. “We clearly haven’t given you enough of that medicine.”

“Don’t-” Jack says, and grabs his father’s arm, trying to pull himself up again. His head is spinning. Medication. That must have been the strange taste in his food. “Don’t give me anything!”

“Jack!” his mother scolds, and finishes her call, putting the phone away as she does. She comes over and looks down at him disapprovingly. “Now you’ve made all kinds of problems with that social worker, just when we were getting back to normal. You really shouldn’t make such a fuss, dear.”

“What did you do to me?” John asks, trying to sit upright. His body isn’t listening. 

“You need help, Jack,” his mother says, looking sad. “Don’t worry. I’m sure once you’re taking your medicine regularly all of this will go away.”

It’s making it worse, he wants to cry, but he can’t make himself speak right now. He’s falling asleep, though he hadn’t been tired enough to justify it, though there’s work to be done. The city is under siege, and all the avenues of escape are cut off, and he has failed to get a message through. There are no reinforcements coming. He fights to keep his eyes open, to look at the familiar old fireplace, but he’s being pulled down into darkness. 

Even as his eyes shut, though, he can still hear them, talking over his head.

“What are we supposed to do?” His father’s voice is a tired growl. “I thought they said he had these things under control.”

“We’ll figure it out,” his mother assures him. “I’m sure it’s just a matter of adjusting the dosage. We’ll try tripling the dose next time. I can call the doctor back if it doesn’t work.”

“And if nothing works?”

“It will! It will all go away, and we’ll get our Jack back, and then we can go back to normal! This is just - it’s a sickness, and all we have to do is medicate it out of him.” She doesn’t sound certain.

“What if we don’t, Karen? What if he’s just one of those lunatics all the time now?”

“Then we go to the experts, back at the hospital, and let them figure out the medications,” she insists. “I’m not going to just sit here and watch him go crazy! How will he ever go back to school, or college? How would we explain it to the family?” 

“If it gets out at work, we could lose our health insurance,” his father complains. “I’ll never see another promotion again. My career will be over.”

“It’s not going to get out,” she assures him. “We’ll keep it quiet until he’s well again. We just have to keep him out of sight of the neighbors until he’s better.”

The darkness pulls him farther down, and Jack stops fighting. He’s under siege on all sides, and there’s burning shot coming at him. There are no avenues of escape left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, kittens. Hope you're all weathering this storm of words well! 
> 
> This pace is unsustainable, I'm well aware of it, but right now this story is demanding to be told. I'm pretty sure my best friend (who reads this because she is Nosy <3) thinks I've taken leave of my senses, and she may not be wrong. Still, whatever keeps us going, right? 
> 
> If you haven't yet, be sure to check out the companion story, Much Is Taken, or you're going to wind up missing some things! It's an awkward division of this story into two different pieces, but it's the best I can do. 
> 
> Much love to you all. You're all now my Pandemic Best Friends, I hope you know - hence my showering you with pain and angst. Adieu - Kivrin.


	24. twenty-four

He floats between worlds for an incomprehensible length of time. He knows time is passing based on things he hears in the new world - snatches of conversation, doors opening and closing - but he cannot open his eyes there or control anything. He hears a conversation, and cannot even turn his head to listen more carefully.

“What’s wrong with him now? You didn’t say he’d sleep for days on end!” The father’s voice, low and fearful. 

“I don’t know! I increased the dosage like the doctor said. It shouldn’t be this sedating!” The mother, sounding near panic. “What do we do? What if he doesn’t wake up?”

A hand descends on his chest, presses against the side of his throat, and he would flinch away if he could. “No, he’s still breathing, still got a heartbeat. If we call an ambulance or anything, we’ll wind up behind bars.”

“I followed medical advice,” the mother protests, her voice nearly a shriek. “They didn’t tell me this would happen!” 

“Parents have been jailed for less,” the man says, angry now. “No-one will listen to our side of things, no matter how dangerous he might have gotten. No. We need to wait for him to wake up and then take him to the hospital and let them deal.”

“You’re right. It’s going to be fine,” the woman says, clearly convincing herself. “I suppose perhaps it’s a good thing, anyway. He was getting so distraught, talking to that social worker! A good rest is probably exactly what he needs, and he’ll be back to himself when he wakes up.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” the man retorts. “Jack’s gone, and what we’ve got instead is this psychopath with the play accent who thinks he’s still in a war. That’s not a safe situation for us, Karen.”

He lets himself slip away, lets himself rest. He floats for a while in a darkness that’s soothing in its tranquility, then emerges in the world of memory, as far from the present as he can manage. Charles Towne under siege, and receiving a letter from Hamilton to warn of the coming danger, urging him not to risk himself. 

Who is he, he wonders vaguely. It doesn’t seem incredibly important, but it would be nice to know. That knowledge seems distant, foggy, as though wrapped in cotton wool. He remembers the effects of laudanum after some of his battle wounds, and this is not dissimilar. 

He wanders through his memories, unhurried, unperturbed even by the most distressing recollections. He views them at a distance, and moves along. One life bleeds into the other, and he watches as he finds a family again, and then walks away, an unconscious mirror of the time that came before. 

When he comes back to the present again, it is less of a gentle wandering. He is yanked towards the surface of his mind by voices, insistent and demanding, and the feel of hands upon his face, his throat, a hand in his that holds as tight as it may. He would return the grip, if he could, but his body is still not responding.

“...said sit down and keep quiet,” one of the voices is saying, sharp and threatening. “Don’t even think about moving until the cops get here.”

“Oh god,” another voice says, warm and maternal. Mother, he thinks, and still cannot move. “Oh, no. Jack, sweetheart.” There are light hands on his arm, his forehead, his other hand is held tightly, and he starts to feel a bit more grounded. His fingers are almost under his control again. “What’s happened? Did he fall ill?”

“Marissa, the ambulance should be here any minute.” This voice is warm and powerful, a harbor in a storm. “They’ll be able to figure it out. I doubt we can expect any truth out of her.”

He tries to swim up, moving towards the voices. He wants to be there, now. He makes his fingers move a little against the pressure of both hands holding his, and two people cry out in excitement. 

“Jack?” Marissa says, breathless and hopeful.

“John?” That’s Alexander, voice tight and worried, and he doesn’t know which to respond to. He squeezes a little tighter with his fingers, barely under his control yet, and hopes it’s enough to let them know he’s there.

“Where are the police?” Another young voice, impatient - Laf. “How are they not here yet?”

There are sirens screaming in the distance, getting louder, and the voices all start talking at once - accusations and threats, recriminations, and he can’t get a clear picture of what’s happening. He has to open his eyes. 

It’s hard work, but he manages it in time to make out the blurry shapes of several uniformed figures hurrying through the door. His eyes are barely cracked open, and he cannot move his head, but it helps him to start waking up a bit more. Marissa beckons frantically at some of them.

“Please, over here. Hurry!” The medical crew head towards him, while Jordan takes command of the police.

“Don’t let her leave,” he calls in a sharp tone that does not brook any disobedience. “She’s done something to her son. We can’t wake him up.”

“Nonsense!” That’s his mother - he knows the voice too well, though he can’t make out her face. “These hooligans broke in while I was out! They did something to Jack! Arrest them at once!”

The EMT and paramedic are at his side, and he finally remembers enough to be grateful they aren’t the ones he saw the first time. This team looks a good deal more concerned and sympathetic. “What happened, ma’am?” The paramedic asks the question calmly, already taking his pulse and checking her watch.

“I don’t know - I just arrived,” Marissa says, turning to look back down at him. He wants to smile at the sight of her face, tired and worried-looking though it is, but he’s not there yet.

“We found him like this,” Alex says, all barely-contained fury. “Maybe ten minutes ago, just before we called 911. We haven’t been able to get any kind of response from him.”

“To the best of your knowledge, has he taken any substances that would be likely to cause this sort of reaction?” The paramedic glances back and forth between them. “Street drugs, alcohol, anything like that?”

“Never,” Alex says firmly. “Not Jack.”

“Medicine,” Marissa says, looking over at where Jack’s mother is arguing with the police, with Jordan, with everyone. He wonders quietly if she’s enjoying not having anyone listen to her when she speaks. “On the phone with his social worker, we heard her telling Jack he needed his medicine. She said he was raving!” The quiet anger in her voice is somehow as comforting as any bed he has ever slept in, any fire he has ever sheltered around. 

“For what condition, ma’am?” The paramedic presses, now listening to his chest with her stethoscope. 

“He’s a Second-Timer,” Alex snaps. “And don’t you dare try to pull any kind of shit about Second-Timers not deserving treatment, because I’ve had it up to-”

“No worries, kid,” she says, unconcerned by his threats. “My sister’s a reincarnate. No other medical conditions?”

“None,” Marissa confirms. 

By the door, there’s a sound like a scuffle is breaking out, and John wishes very much he could see the action. The paramedic leans in to open his eyelid, her light painfully bright, and he manages to flinch backwards a bit. “Hey, sleepyhead,” she says easily. “Good to see those eyes open. Just try and keep calm for me, OK?”

He can’t nod yet, but he can lie still, and she seems to take that as a sign of agreement. 

“Oh, thank god,” Phil says, coming in at a near run. Margy and Sam are behind him, and even from his limited viewpoint, John can tell the room is getting very full. “I was afraid you wouldn’t catch her in time!”

“Sir,” one of the police offers says loudly, “I’m going to have to ask you-”

Phil does something with a piece of paper, and says, “Phil Skyler, Virginia State Department of Reincarnate Affairs. I’m this young man’s social worker. We’ve been trying to locate him all day.” He breathes out hard, a ragged sigh of relief. “I suspect that his parents will be facing charges of medical abuse and child endangerment, at the very least.”

“We aren’t the ones who endangered him!” Jack’s mother shrieks. “You took him from his family, you let him fill his head with this nonsense! Now he’s a danger to himself! I was only following doctor’s orders!”

“What did you give him?” the paramedic asks, striding over to insert herself in the conversation. “I need names and dosages, now.” 

“In my purse,” his mother says reluctantly, after a long pause in which John relearns the skill of blinking on his own. His progress is to be applauded. Henry Laurens had always said he was a gifted student when he put his mind to it. The paramedic tears through the bag and pulls something out, studying it quickly.

“Phenobarbitol,” she calls over to the EMT who is still with John. “How much?” This question is directed at his mother again, who cowers.

“The - the prescribed dosage at first, but then that wasn’t working, so we increased it.”

“How. Much?” There’s no mercy in the question. 

“Well, a doctor I was emailing with online said I should try doubling the dose-”

“I need amounts and times,” the paramedic continues mercilessly. 

The EMT leans over and murmurs to Marissa, “No worries, mom. He’s awake and starting to respond; heart rate and breathing are fine. I don’t think there should be any long-lasting trouble.”

“There had better not be,” she mutters in response, but her hand tightens on John’s, and she brushes his hair back with a gentle hand. “Hear that, sweetheart? He says you’re going to be fine, so you can stop scaring us all to death now.”

“Like hell he can,” Alex mutters darkly. He doesn’t let go, either. 

Phil makes his way over, and now that John can see his face, it’s a study in terror and relief, playing back and forth. “He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?”

“Looks like it,” Marissa says. “Did you find his father?”

“He made a run for it,” Phil says tiredly. “Dropped Karen off here, apparently saying he was going to park the car, but when he heard the sirens he took off. He’s not likely to get far.”

John reminds himself of his Latin studies at a young age, of the military tactics he had learned on the fly, and turns his mind to his newest challenge. He needs to remember how to talk.

“We’ll be happy to offer testimony at any point,” Jordan is telling the police officer by the door. They seem to be putting handcuffs on his mother, now. “What they’ve done is so far beyond disgraceful. They should be brought to justice without delay, and with no further ability to harm this boy.”

Margy makes her way over, though it seems like she has to push her way through the crowd to get there. “Well done, Alex,” she says, nodding hearty approval. “We owe you big on this one.”

“You really don’t,” Alex mutters. 

“Hey, Jack,” she says, turning to him with a sympathetic smile. “Guess we messed up big time, huh? We’re going to do everything we can to make this right, I promise.”

“Are we filing an emergency petition?” Phil asks, and she nods sharply. 

“Seabury is on it right now. No doubt that we’ll get it, I promise.”

The police officer in charge starts rounding people up, and Marissa and Phil and Margy are all called away to give statements, leaving Alex alone by John’s side. He can hear Laf in the middle of the group, interrupting every few seconds to interject further information, and he wants to be able to smile. Maybe he will, eventually. 

It’s time for a heroic effort, and John draws on all the strength he’s ever possessed, all the stubbornness that had gotten him this far. He speaks.

“Alexander?” His voice is tired, no more than a whisper, but Alex is on his knees beside him in a heartbeat, staring at him with the face of a young almost-stranger, but the expression is all Alexander.

“John,” Alexander breathes, closing his eyes for a moment. He looks like he might weep - but he never did like to fall prey to the demands of particular attachments, John remembers with a tired fondness. Alexander opens his eyes and stares at him fiercely. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“Which time?” John breathes - and there, he’s remembered how to smile, as well. They’ll be promoting him to General in no time, at this rate. “I expect you plan to take me to task for several offences.”

“My dear Laurens,” Alexander says, as if he’s going to continue to scold him - but his eyes well up with tears, and he cuts himself off, and buries his head in the bedclothes at John’s side.

It’s a further herculean effort, but John manages to raise his free hand, though it feels like it weighs a hundred pounds, and place it on Alexander’s bowed head. He closes his own eyes again, worn out by the effort, but this time his descent into the dark is peaceful and free of fear.

~~~~~

When he wakes again, properly, he’s back in a hospital room - but the door is standing open, this time, and Marissa and Jordan are both with him, sitting in chairs at either side of his bed. He knows them as the Wallertons, even as he also knows them as George and Martha Washington. It’s a bit disconcerting.

“He’s awake,” Jordan whispers, waking Marissa with a start. He moves forward a little, smiling at John. “Young man, it is very good to see you again.”

“Your Excellency,” John says. Talking is much easier this time, even if he still feels as worn as an old pair of shoes. “It seems circumstances have finally seen fit to restore me to your company, at least for a while. I could not be more grateful.” He wishes he were properly attired, that he could offer the appropriate gestures of respect, but the General had always been very understanding of the human frailties of his aides.

“John Laurens,” Jordan says, shaking his head in disbelief. “I can still scarcely believe it. Why on earth didn’t you make yourself known to us?”

John frowns. He remembers many things from his life, and some things from the boy Jack’s experiences, but he cannot access all of those now, where he once had been able to. “I don’t recall, sir,” he says. The effort of trying to remember is causing him a terrible headache. “I don’t remember much after I died.”

“John,” Marissa says, shaking her head. “You’ve been given a sedative that seems to have had some negative effects. We’ve had a consultation with a doctor who knows a bit about Second-Timers, and she was concerned about the potential of a split between your past and present, due to trauma and the medication.” She rubs her forehead, hesitant. “Are you still Jack, as well?”

He thinks about that, trying to work it out. “I think I’m meant to be,” he says carefully. “But I believe he is still sleeping, just now.”

Jordan nods sadly. “That’s not a surprise. Not many could handle what he’s been through recently without some level of struggle.” He looks over at Marissa again, and they seem to be in agreement. “John, we are absolutely delighted to have found you at last. Alexander is about out of his mind with relief. But we need to speak to Jack as well. Do you think that is possible?”

John nods tiredly. “We are getting better at working together,” he tells them. “I’ll see what I can do.” 

He closes his eyes, and tries to wake up the part of him that’s Jack - the part that’s younger and less cynical, less worn down by time. It takes longer than he’d like, and then it’s the same strange sensation as before - like stepping back and letting Jack step up, and fading into being Jack, all at once. 

Jack opens his eyes and blinks at the Wallertons in surprise. “What are you doing here?” 

“Jack?” Marissa asks. He nods uncertainly, and she flies forward to hug him, even though he’s still lying there like a useless potato. He can’t help but feel a rush of relief as big as the world. 

“Hi,” he says stupidly, and she laughs and kisses his forehead, and sits on the edge of his bed.

“You’ve had us so worried, sweetheart,” she says, shaking her head. “We’re too old to have our hearts put through this much trauma!” 

“Speak for yourself,” Jordan says, grinning, as he comes over and takes Jack’s hand. “I feel like a young man again. All this chasing my young men around, trying to keep them alive despite themselves - it does bring back memories!” 

“But why are you here?” Jack asks again. “I wanted to ask Phil to tell you I wasn’t ignoring you on purpose. They took my phone, and I couldn’t get through. You didn’t come back because of that, did you?”

“It’s a long story,” Jordan says, the amusement fading from his face. “We’ll explain it all - but we have a question that needs an answer right now, before we get into that.”

That’s a very intimidating proposition, and Jack swallows hard, keeping his breathing steady. He cannot imagine what’s been going on, and the fact that he has a sudden gap in his memories between the world’s worst family vacation and his suddenly waking up in a hospital bed does not seem to point to anything good. 

Before they can say anything, though, two figures dart through the door, closing it behind them, and pull the curtain around his bed.

“Don’t say anything,” Laf cautions, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “We distracted them quite well, so they do not know we are here!”

“Family visitors only, my ass,” Alex mutters. “I’m gonna write so many letters of complaint to this place that they drown in them.” He looks at Jack, eyes huge with relief that he’s trying to conceal. “You still look like shit, by the way. Dying of some horrible swamp fever again?”

He laughs at that - the first time he can remember laughing since he left home, and it’s good. It doesn’t make everything better, but he feels a little more able to breathe. “Worse. Golf and antiques. I’ll take swamp fever any day.”

Marissa and Jordan are smiling at all of them so fondly, and Jack isn’t as scared about their question anymore. He looks at them, and Jordan nods. 

“As I said, there’s a long story to tell, and I’m pretty sure we’re going to need you to fill in a lot of the gaps. For right now, though, I have to tell you that your parents have both been arrested.”

“And they deserved it,” Alex hisses. Laf pats his shoulder consolingly. 

“Phil and Margy are working on the legalities, but it looks pretty certain that you won’t be able to go back to living with them again,” Marissa says carefully. “I’m sorry.”

Jack isn’t, but he can’t say that. The enormity of the idea overwhelms him. On the one hand, to be free of that house and the stifling imprisonment it represented was a wonderful thing. On the other - 

“Where will I go?” Jack asks quietly, directing the question to the ceiling above him. 

“That’s what we want to ask,” Jordan says. “I know you said you wanted to go home, but as that’s not an option-”

“And as you were lying in the first place,” Alex interrupts. Marissa shushes him. 

“Would you consider coming back to live with us?’

Jack swallows hard. This is unfair, he thinks bitterly. How can they ask him this in front of Alex? He wants nothing more in the world than to go back home, to go back to how things had been before Alex’s memories hit them all like a train. He draws a deep breath and shakes his head.

“What?” Laf asks, shock coloring his voice and sending it racing up an octave or two. “You will not come home?”

“I can’t,” Jack says thickly, past the lump in his throat. This is harder than walking away in the first place. 

“Why not?” Alex demands. “Your shitty parents are out of the picture, and you’ve got to go somewhere. I’ve told you enough about other places. You don’t want to wind up somewhere like that.”

“I know,” Jack whispers miserably. He looks at Marissa and Jordan, willing them to understand; he glances quickly at Alex, then back at the Wallertons. “But I heard what Phil told you. I’m not taking his place.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey kids! Running late tonight, and I'm afraid there's only going to be this one chapter today. I somehow got talked into reading to my kids for like 4.5 hours today (not a typo) so I'm very behind on everything else in life, and I'm perfectly OK with that trade-off! Major apologies that I am not going to be able to get to comment replies this evening - rest assured I've spent the last 24 hours treasuring and adoring them all, and will reply as soon as possible! Love to you all - Kivrin.


	25. twenty-five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't read the three chapters from Alex's point of view in the story I've called "Much Is Taken", please do that before reading this one or you'll miss a lot of what you need to know!

Jack doesn’t really feel entirely himself again until they turn onto the long, curving drive that leads up to the Wallertons’ house. He’s been feeling better, of course, infinitely better as the medication has worn off and he’s gotten assurances that he really and truly is going back home, and that this time it’s not going to be taken away from him. The drive back should have been uncomfortable, with Alex and Laf and Jack crammed into the backseat together with barely room to move, but it winds up being the most comforting thing in the world. He sleeps almost all the way home, collapsing shamelessly on top of Alex, who has to sit in the middle on account of being smallest.

Marissa wakes him up as they get home, turning around to tap him gently on the knee. “Welcome home,” she says, smiling at all three of them.

“Thank god it’s still spring break until the start of next week,” Alex says, yawning hugely. “I don’t want to get inside a moving vehicle again for the rest of my life.”

“So, no more driving lessons, then?” Jordan teases, and Alex squawks in protest, and it’s all Jack can do not to laugh out loud at them. It is so good to be back, he thinks, as they make their way up the drive that had been more than a little intimidating six months ago, and is now nothing less than the most beautiful sight in all the world.

Jack has been away for less than a month, but somehow it feels like far longer. He’d completely lost track of time in the past few days, for understandable reasons, but even before that it feels like he’d been set adrift in another dimension where time passed differently. It’s hard to make himself understand that they haven’t even reached the end of March, yet.

It comes as another shock when he walks into his room and finds it absolutely unchanged, except for having been looted of a few of his favorite belongings that Alex and Jordan had been bringing down to him before everything had gone insane. Jack turns to look at the rest of them, who have crowded into the doorframe to watch him. He feels like he won’t be particularly entertaining.

“It’s all the same,” he says, his voice tinged with audible wonder. “You didn’t clear my things out?”

Jordan wraps an arm around Marissa, and she lets her head rest on his shoulder, both of them smiling gently. “No,” Jordan says. “Of course not. It was all waiting for you to come home.”

Like we were, the unspoken words say clearly. He shakes his head, unable to believe it.

“But what if they hadn’t - you know,” he says, and stops mid-sentence. There’s no good way to say “what if my parents hadn’t accidentally drugged me into a coma,” he’s coming to find.

“Then it just would have kept waiting,” Marissa tells him. “But we knew you’d be back. It didn’t make any sense for you not to come home, eventually.”

“I’m going to shower,” Alex announces, suddenly and brusquely. “I smell like Laf’s hair product from being slept on for a hundred hours.” Laf sticks his tongue out at Alex’s retreating back, and Jack watches him go in slight confusion.

“You may have to be a bit patient with Alex,” Jordan reminds him. “He didn’t take any of it well, and he didn’t give himself time and space to deal with your departure, since he was trying to work through his past-life memories.’

Jack nods, understanding that a bit. He does know how to be patient.

Jordan and Marissa go to start working on dinner, and Laf lingers at the door, grinning softly.

“What?” Jack asks, trying not to smile in response. Laf’s smile is very infectious, and he’s in such a good mood, but it feels odd to be so susceptible to the moods of others.

“It is good to be back together,” Laf says cheerfully. “And I think Alex will do better, now that you are here. He has mourned you deeply, especially these past few weeks.”

Jack goes to shrug, unwilling to bear the weight of that statement - and then something clicks, and he gapes at Laf instead. “Wait. I was the bad memory that was coming?”

“Not you,” Laf corrects, rolling his eyes. “Your death. I do not remember back that far, but I do remember knowing that Alexander had changed since the war, since you had been killed. He was never the same again; we drifted apart a good deal in later years, though we were still friends. He did not share his heart in the same way after your death.”

“I didn’t think it would matter much,” Jack confesses.

“Even then, you were reckless with our hearts and your own safety,” Laf assures him. “I could lend you books, now, if you are ready to know.”

Jack opens the notebook on the top of the stack he’s piled on his desk - all the items he retrieved from the box the others had packed for him. He pulls out a few of his sketches - Alexander, Lafayette, General Washington - and stares at them a long while.

“No,” he says eventually. “Thank you, but I think I’d rather remember in my own way.” It will take longer to put it all together, he knows, and he may never have the more complete picture that an outside resource like a history book could give him. That’s all right. He doesn’t need to know everything. It will be enough if he can eventually come to understand John Laurens, and to figure out what his place in the world had been.

He’s starting to feel more - whole, maybe - as he relaxes into the safety and security of the familiar house. Everything is just - right. It smells right, and feels exactly as it should, warm and comfortable and welcoming. The sounds of cooking from the kitchen, the feel of the floor under his feet - he’s home. Even the muttering coming from Alex’s room as he gets dressed again after his shower is familiar and right. His fingers are itching to start drawing again.

“I don’t think I’m going to miss them,” he tells Laf. “Is that strange? My parents, I mean.”

“Who could miss them after what they did?”

“No,” Jack says slowly. “Even before that. I haven’t missed them at all since I first got here. It just felt like - like this was where I had always been meant to be, and the other house was a mistake all along.”

Laf nods sagely. “I did not miss my parents here for long, either. Our hearts knew where they were meant to be.”

“Think that’s why Alex settled down here so fast, too?” Jack asks. It’s almost hard to remember the Alex he’d first met, so suspicious and touchy, ready to run without even seeing whether there was anything to run from. Laf shrugs.

“Probably. Or maybe he was just tired of all of it and ready to look for peace at last.”

Jack isn’t sure whether peace is actually a possibility for any of them, but it’s a nice idea. Even Jordan and Marissa have their own struggles and regrets from the past, and they’ve had a good deal longer to make peace with it. Still, he won’t complain if he somehow finds something like the life they’ve made for themselves in this second world.

By the time they’re sitting down to dinner, it’s almost impossible to make himself believe he had ever been gone. If it weren’t for the yawning fear and loneliness that the past few weeks have stirred up, just beneath the surface of his mind, he would be able to believe it had been nothing but a bad dream. Still, dinner is amazing. It feels like he hasn’t missed anything, like everything had been on hold until he could get back.

Alex is back to just about what passes for normal for him; he’s a little tireder, a little more thoughtful, a bit quieter. He sits directly across from Jack, which leads to some awkwardness; he’s not quite comfortable yet making eye contact, after what had passed between them in the hospital. His long months of putting aside John’s feelings for Alexander have left him more twitchy than he should be about his own sentiments for Alex, as they’re all muddled up together, and he’s not quite looking forward to trying to untangle all of that.

And the trouble is, when you come right down to it, he’d never been successful at his efforts, anyway. He’d known from the moment he remembered his own death that Alexander had been foremost in his heart. Everything after that had been confirmation, even as he was doing his best to put it aside, ignore it, make himself forget about it, and he doesn’t honestly know which part of himself to blame. He’s becoming more aware all the time of the old self-hatred he bears from John’s life in a world that did not allow for love of the kind that he felt, and that’s probably part of the problem. And he himself, as Jack, has almost no experience with any sort of romantic sentiments. It’s all confusing and awful and terrifying, and he’s hoping things will just sort of work themselves out.

“So, what are the chances that we’ll be able to get Jack re-enrolled at school before the end of spring break?” Jordan asks, and Marissa groans.

“We’ll do our best. You never know with school paperwork.”

“That will make four school enrollments this year,” Jack says gloomily. “What an awesome freshman year. I’m never going to get into college.”

That’s new, he realizes, with a sudden surge of excitement. He hasn’t actually looked forward to something in the future since he’d woken up with the memories of a dead man. Now, suddenly, there’s a world in front of him. He’s not just waiting for this placement to end, waiting to be sent back to a home that seemed to suck all the excitement and energy out of him.

“You might be surprised,” Jordan says. “We have a pretty good network of connections within the Second-Timer community, and some excellent scholarship programs established. We generally look after our own pretty well.”

“Besides, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Marissa reminds him. “One step at a time, right? That’s as true in your educational career as it is in managing your memories.”

It’s the first homecooked meal Jack has had since he left, and he’s startled by how much of an appetite he has. He feels even more fully that he’s coming awake - as if the enforced sleep of the medications wearing off is letting him bring himself more fully awake than he has been since he died. The old feeling of fear at being taken over by a strange presence is gone; he feels instead that he’s becoming himself, really and actually, for the first time in his life. He’s got a long way to go, but he’s on the right road.

They kick Jordan and Marissa out of the kitchen to let the boys clean up, and Jack can almost remember how well they used to work in harmony, the three of them. It’s a shame that Alex and Laf are farther away from getting all the memories of their time together, before. It’ll be some time yet before they can all share properly in the memories of that life - but at least now he can look forward to that time, knowing that they’ll all still be there, still be together, and they’re going to be able to share in the good and the bad together.

“So Laf, you’re read, like, everything about our lives,” Alex says casually as they’re washing and drying the dishes together. “How much awful do we still have to get through with these memory retrievals?”

“Most of it is not so bad, I think,” Laf says. He frowns. “Some very bad things early on for you, Alex, but that should be a while away yet, and we will all keep getting better at handling them, I believe.”

“We need more therapy,” Jack reflects. “I do, at least. There’s a lot I don’t know how to handle, yet.” The past few weeks have been proof of that.

“Jordan and Marissa have already been making plans,” Alex says wryly. “They were talking about it in the car when they thought we were all asleep. So much more therapy coming our way. It’s gonna suck.” He grins a little as he says it, though, and Jack doesn’t think he’s really going to mind at all.

“I’ve figured out that eavesdropping isn’t worth it,” Jack tells him, shaking his head. “Give it up. It only leads to bad things.”

“Only if you’re too much of a selfless idiot to stop and think through things before flinging yourself into peril for no reason,” Alex argues, and wipes a handful of soap bubbles on Jack’s shoulder when he goes to argue. Jack rolls his eyes.

“You are not one to lecture anyone about acting without thinking,” Laf scolds. “You know they’ve literally written whole books about your bad life choices, Alex.”

Alex shrugs. “That’s not my fault,” he points out, but he’s not angry or defensive about it like he used to be. “I mean, not now. I haven’t done any of that shit this time, and based on my own bad example, I don’t plan to, either.”

Jack smiles, ducking his head; that’s so much like how he’s thinking about things, now, trying to bring together the past and present to make a better future, that it’s amusing to hear it coming from Alex, too.

“You can smile now,” Laf says, shaking his head at Jack. “Wait until you hear some of the things he got up to after you were gone.” Alex elbows Laf hard, and Laf coughs something that sounds suspiciously like “Reynolds Pamphlet”, and Jack actually does laugh then. The idea that he’ll get the chance to learn these things and laugh at Alex with Laf, or embarrass Laf by looking at some of the hyperbolic love for Lafayette in certain quarters, is invigorating.

“Go away, Laf,” Alex says, shoving him toward the door, and Laf takes off, happy to be excused from more dishes. Jack shakes his head in imitation of Laf a moment before.

“I don’t even want to know, do I?”

“About that one? No, you really don’t,” Alex says, looking disgusted. “I didn’t either. Definitely no thanks to my past self for making me remember all of that at a particularly stressful time in my life. And they wonder why I acted out in foster homes!” He looks offended on his own behalf.

“Thank god they sent you here, finally,” Jack says quietly, and Alex’s face falls into quieter, calmer lines.

“Yes,” he agrees. He washes a few more dishes before he speaks again. “I can’t imagine where I’d be now if they hadn’t - or if they’d sent me here and you elsewhere. I don’t want to think about that.”

“I feel like we were always going to end up here,” Jack says. “One way or the other, we’d have found each other eventually, wouldn’t we?”

“I don’t know.” Alex is staring very hard at the sink. “I don’t know that you would have come to find me, and I would have been too lost to ever look for you, without the Wallertons.”

“I was literally looking for you from the moment I started to remember anything,” Jack objects. “You have no idea how confusing it was. I didn’t even know my own name, but I knew yours.”

Alex glances up at him, somewhere between guilty and hopeful. “Really?”

“When I died,” Jack says honestly, “my deepest regret was that I would never get to see you again, or say goodbye properly. That’s all I could remember, at first. Dying, and Alexander, whoever that was.”

“Sorry,” Alex mutters.

“I’m not,” Jack says. He’s feeling bolder than usual. It’s probably John’s fault. “I didn’t want to remember anything at all, and everything was awful at first. Dying and the ambush and knowing I’d failed at everything - but the fact that I remembered you?” He hesitates a moment. “That meant that there was someone I’d once loved that deeply,” Jack says quietly. “So it was never without meaning - all of it, even when it felt like failure. There had been an Alexander, and so there had been something that mattered.”

“Not enough, though,” Alex says. “Not enough to have kept you safe.”

“We were soldiers, Alex,” Jack tells him calmly. “Dying in battle was never a great threat.”

“And that’s why you got shot every time you fought!” Alex protests.

“That was never the worst of my problems,” Jack says, laughing a little.

“Excuse me if I can’t laugh about it so easily,” Alex tells him grumpily, unplugging the sink with enough force to splatter water all over himself. “I had to live on in the world after you died, you ass.” There’s enough real pain and remorse there to make Jack pause, and think about the past few weeks of wild, impossible grief from Alex. Had that really all been for him?

“What were we, to one another?” Jack asks quietly. He steps a little closer, to make Alex look at him. “I don’t know it all, yet. It’s still blocked or too far back.”

Alex shrugs. “I don’t fully remember, either. I know it almost made an end of me, hearing that you had been killed.” He’s quiet for a moment, eyes lost in the past. “Does it matter?”

“I suppose not,” Jack admits. He doesn’t jump or flinch in surprise when Alex’s hand finds his, and he returns the grasp. It matters, of course, but also it’s the least important thing. What will they be now, he wonders. What are they becoming, separately and together?

The world is in front of them, now. He doesn’t know that he would say it is a better world than the one they lived in before, but it is different, and so are they. Their challenges and triumphs will not be the same as their elders, but they’ll face them with greater wisdom and more experience, and Jack is fairly sure that they have a good shot of doing better this time around. Time is a gift. He’d only gotten a small measure of it before, and he lives now with the consequences of that foreshortened life.

They’re staring at one another, he realizes. It probably looks ridiculous from the outside.

Laf actually laughing at them from the door is kind of proof that he’s right. He’s leaning against the doorframe, watching them with the fondest amusement. They spring apart, shoving their hands behind their backs, and Laf shakes his head at them.

“My dear friends,” he says, coming in and putting an arm around each of their shoulders. “Do you have any idea how good it is to see you both so happy?”

They had been, sometimes, in their first life - John is sure of it. But he thinks that, maybe, they have a better chance of it this time around.

The philosophers and theorists can argue all they like about Second-Timers - what causes them, and why, and whether it’s a punishment or a curse or just freak accident. He has all the proof he needs that it is a gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, lambchops. I had to sit on this chapter a day or two because I wasn't quite ready to say goodbye yet, but I think I'm there, now. This story has been an incredible, intense, challenging journey, and I have been delighted to share it with you all. There are, of course, so many things ahead of them that I could keep writing about - remembering duels and Valley Forge in the winter, and John finding out exactly what the Reynolds Pamphlet was about, and a thousand other things. (Do I see potential for possible one-shots in this 'verse there? Maybe...) 
> 
> But I think one of the measures of a good storyteller is knowing when to end a tale, and this is the end of this one.
> 
> I'm not leaving you lot, of course. You're stuck with me until this mania burns me out. I've already started the next story and have the first chapter up (a protective measure to allow me to put this one away), so feel free to come and find me there, and I will continue to send you all my love!
> 
> Finally, I'll leave you with this - the last bit of the poem Ulysses, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, whose words I have so irreverently stolen for my titles. (Go read the whole thing, my ducks, it'll do your soul good.)
> 
> Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'  
> We are not now that strength which in old days  
> Moved heaven and earth, that which we are, we are;  
> One equal temper of heroic hearts,  
> Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will  
> To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

**Author's Note:**

> What's this? No, it's not me sneaking in with the start of a foster care/reincarnation/Lams AU. You're imagining things. Go back to sleep. 
> 
> No clue what the update schedule is going to look like on this one, kittens. Let's see what happens, shall we? Love to you all - Kivrin.


End file.
